The Crimson Hills

by L. P. Holmes

  Farther along the bar, his back against it, thumbs hooked in his gun belt, was Whitey Brewer. Whitey’s face was puffed all out of shape from the effect of Dave Wall’s fists, and he held the same danger edge of liquor in him that Nick did. Whitey was watching the rest of the room, guarding Nick’s back.

  Nick Karnes was speaking, slowly and thickly. “Well … well, Sutton … here we are. You dropped in at just the right time. Saves me and Whitey considerable trouble, this does. Because we’re ridin’ south to see our good friend, Luke Lilavelt, and we wanted to take along some news that’ll make him happy. Now we can. News that you’re dead, Sutton … that …”

  Dave Wall spoke, his tone hardly above a conversational level. “Look this way, Nick.”

  This whole play was a gamble and a desperate one. For Wall could read the drunken resolve in Nick, could see the utter certainty of it. Nick was going to kill. He was cocked and primed. Whether the idea had come before the whiskey was in him, or whether it was the whiskey that had set him off, there was no way of telling and it didn’t matter. For the idea had him now, locked and deadly.

  To have yelled at Nick might have startled him into pulling that trigger. To have shot him where he stood might have caused the same reaction. For a dying man’s reflex had fired a gun before and even a man dead on his feet, once his gun was couched as Nick’s was, could not have missed at the distance he stood from Bart Sutton. The only chance was to break through Nick’s hard intentness without setting him off, and get him to swing that poised gun a little wide. After that …

  Wall’s quiet words cut through Nick Karnes’ feral obsession. His round, small head swung and he saw Wall. It took a few long seconds for the full significance of Wall’s presence to impinge on Nick’s kill-drugged mind. In his black wicked eyes showed just a flicker of indecision and his gun wavered slightly.

  Bart Sutton’s right hand jerked and the contents of his half-lifted glass splashed in Nick’s face. With the same move he was whirling away from the bar, going for his gun.

  The small, thin tinkle of Sutton’s dropped whiskey glass, splintering on the floor, came just ahead of the flat thunder of Nick Karnes’ gun. Bart Sutton staggered, but held his feet. Nick, snake fast, was chopping down for a second try when Dave Wall let him have it, knowing he had to kill the venomous little rider, and shooting with that cold, dread purpose. For Bart Sutton couldn’t have got there ahead of Nick’s second try.

  Dave Wall put his slug a little to the left of center in Nick Karnes’ chest, heart high. The impact lifted Nick, drove him back a step, spun him slowly, and then dropped him in a loose, shrunken sprawl.

  At his spot farther along the bar, Whitey Brewer got into belated action. Whitey had heard those first quiet words spoken by Dave Wall, but when Whitey jerked his head to locate them, Bart Sutton’s solid bulk was between him and the saloon door and he was unable to locate Wall clearly. And then had come this crashing whirl of hard and deadly action that had put Nick sprawled and still on the floor.

  But now the way to the door was open and Whitey saw Wall there. Whitey drew and fired all in one explosive move and the slug splintered through the wing door but inches away from where Wall’s left hand still rested. It was Whitey’s last conscious move, for now Bart Sutton had his gun clear and at its heavy roar Whitey fell back against the bar, slid down until he seemed to be sitting on the brass foot rail. Then he fell over on one side, his heels drummed twice, and then he was still.

  The saloon, tied tight with motionless tension a moment before, broke into confused action. Poker tables were deserted and men milled about, jostling and talking with the high hard tones that told of nerves that had been jangled and whipped raw by hovering danger and the violent release from it.

  The ominous rumble and beat of gunfire had sent its sullen alarm well beyond the walls of the Rialto and men from other spots along the street came running to jam through the door. Among these were the four Window Sash hands who had ridden into town ahead of Wall and Tres Debley. Now, also, came Tres Debley and, catching the loom of Dave Wall’s tall figure, bulled a way to his side. This brought Tres close enough in to see the sprawled figures of Nick Karnes and Whitey Brewer. Tres let out an explosive breath of relief.

  “I expected to find either you or Bart Sutton down, Dave. I was afraid your talk had ended up in gunsmoke.”

  Dave Wall had been watching the crowd warily, particularly Olds and Challis and Muir and Caraway, not sure but that this thing might now move further. Harshly brief, he explained to Tres. “Karnes and Brewer had Sutton cornered and were set to get him. It worked out a better way. But Karnes got a slug into Sutton. Come on.”

  Wall used his elbows and the weight of his shoulders to drive through to Bart Sutton. The cattleman’s jaw was set and pale lines bracketed his mouth. His left hand was pressed to his side.

  “Where and how bad?” asked Wall.

  “Not too bad, I guess,” gritted Sutton. “Else I wouldn’t still be on my feet. Felt like a horse kicked me … here.” His hand pressed tighter against his side and an oozing crimson began to show about it. Dave Wall took him by the arm.

  “This way. We’ll have a look at it. Tres, keep an eye on the crowd, particularly on those four fine crewmates of ours.”

  There was a door opening off the far end of the bar. Dave steered Bart Sutton over to and through it. Here was what he had hoped, a back room with a bunk, a table, and a low-turned lamp. Dave turned up the lamp and said: “Sit down on that bunk.”

  He helped Sutton out of his calfskin vest and tan woolen shirt. The wound ran all across Sutton’s side and was bleeding freely. Dave traced it carefully and then spoke with quick relief.

  “You were lucky. Looks like the slug came in at a glancing angle, hit a rib, and skidded right along it before coming out. Might have cracked the rib and hurts like hell, I know. Stretch out and take it easy.”

  Sutton obeyed with a grunt of relief, and as Wall went back to the door of the room, the cattleman’s eyes followed him, reflecting a puzzled wonderment.

  Wall yelled at the bartender. “Some whiskey, some clean water, and fresh bar towels. Then, send for a doctor!”

  The bartender, white-faced and sweating, came hurrying. “Nary doctor in these parts,” he gulped. “Sutton … he’s hurt bad?”

  “Not too bad. No doctor in this town, eh? Well, we’ll do our best. Got some balsam oil?”

  “No. But I think there might be some at the livery barn.”

  “Get it. Put that stuff on the table.”

  Bart Sutton took a pull at the whiskey bottle, and then lay in stoic silence while Dave Wall washed the wound and staunched the bleeding with wet compresses. The puzzlement in his glance deepened. “I can’t figure you, Wall,” he mumbled.

  “Don’t try,” murmured Wall. “Sometimes I can’t figure myself.”

  Tres Debley came in with the balsam oil, and Wall poured the wound full of the cooling, healing, aromatic stuff. He smiled grimly.

  “Good for horses, good for humans. I’ve seen it heal far worse than this.”

  He folded clean bar towels across the wound and bound these firmly in place with strips Tres Debley tore from other towels. “That should do until we get you home. Think you can make the ride?”

  The first shock was wearing off. Bart Sutton sat up and reached for his shirt. “I’ll make it,” he said gruffly.

  They helped him don his shirt and vest, but when Tres offered the whiskey bottle again the cattleman shook his head. “I’ll make it,” he said again.

  Wall took a look at the barroom. The place was clearing. The four Window Sash hands had disappeared. The bodies of Karnes and Whitey Brewer had been carried off somewhere and where they had lain a man was busy with a mop and water bucket. The bartender came into the back room, honestly concerned.

  “Good to see you on your feet, Bart. Those two …!” He shook his head. �
�They seemed to go crazy all of a sudden.”

  “Forget it, Sam,” growled Sutton. “It’s over now and no fault of yours.” He turned and faced Dave Wall. “I say again that I can’t figure you, Wall. It would have made things so simple for you and Lilavelt if you’d let them smoke me down. Instead, you stepped in just in time, downed Karnes, and wangled me a break against Brewer. Which left you minus two Window Sash hands while definitely saving my life. All of which leaves me wondering why and what for?”

  “I got rid of Karnes and Brewer earlier today,” said Wall. “Fired the pair of them. They were Lilavelt’s men, not mine.”

  “That don’t add up. You’re a Lilavelt man yourself.”

  “I balk at murder,” said Dave Wall briefly. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Bart Sutton smiled twistedly. “I’m still fighting my head. But every man, I suppose, has some kind of a creed. I’m glad yours reads the way it does.”

  Wall said: “Get the horses, Tres. And while you’re at it, look the street over.” Wall was still remembering Olds, Challis, Muir, and Caraway. Out at the Crimson Hills headquarters they had not interfered in any way when he had taken the edge off Nick Karnes and Whitey Brewer, but there was no way of telling what they might be up to now.

  Tres Debley, understanding thoroughly, nodded. He was soon back. “All set,” he announced briefly. “And … all clear.”

  When they got Bart Sutton out to his horse and into the saddle, Sutton let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know how I’m going to fight you, Wall. You take all my weapons away from me. Last night you did my daughter a decent turn. Tonight you saved my life and killed a Lilavelt man to do it. That leaves me dangling where you’re concerned.”

  All Wall said was: “We’re seeing you home, Tres and me.

  “No need,” rumbled the cattleman. “I can make it alone. I’m all right now.”

  “Maybe you are. Right now you got a stiff jolt of whiskey holding you up. It’ll die out long before you get home. We’re riding with you.”

  They went out of town at a walk, climbed the switchback trail up the lava rim, then swung away to the east. They rode in silence, each man locked in his own thoughts. They were halfway to Sweet Winds before Bart Sutton’s shoulders began to sag a little. Dave and Tres moved up on either side of Sutton, just in case. But the grim old cattleman, though humped low and holding onto his saddle horn with both hands, definitely a sick man, was still riding without assistance when they pulled to a halt before the Square S ranch house.

  The place was quiet and dark. They helped Sutton from his saddle and guided his now uncertain steps to the door. Dave Wall knocked and knocked again. Finally there was a stir in the house and a gleam of light. Then came Tracy Sutton’s voice, sleepy but holding a growing note of alarm.

  “Yes? Who is it?”

  “This is Dave Wall, Miss Sutton. Your father’s here. He’s been hurt some.”

  There came a little wailing cry and the door was flung wide. Tracy Sutton was wrapped to the chin in a woolen robe. Her hair lay across her shoulders, loose yet shining in the light of the lamp she carried. Her face, flushed from interrupted slumber, was now showing a deepening pallor and her eyes were deep, shadowed pools of terror as she glimpsed her father’s sagging, weary-looking figure.

  “Dad! Oh, Dad, what have they done to you? What …?”

  “I’m all right, child,” broke in Sutton. “A little tuckered, that’s all. Show these fellows where I sleep.”

  Chapter Four

  Tracy Sutton led the way to a bedroom, added the glow of another lamp to the one she carried. The room was comfortable, well-furnished, the bed neatly made up. Bart Sutton flattened out on this, closed his eyes. The white-faced girl flayed Dave Wall with a glance.

  “I wonder at your nerve, bringing him home, after … after …!”

  “Steady, Trace … steady,” rumbled Bart Sutton, his eyes still closed. “Don’t jump at conclusions. Wasn’t either of these who bounced a slug off my ribs. Somebody else did that, and they’d have made a complete job on me if Wall hadn’t stepped in when he did. Child, I don’t know why, but right now I’d like nothing better than a big cup of hot coffee. Run along and get it and I’ll tell you all about this, after.”

  Tears brimmed and ran down her white cheeks as she bent over her father. She could see the ominous area that had stained his shirt now. “Oh, Dad … how bad is it? Dad …!”

  Wall’s voice ran gentle. “Not too bad, really. A few days in bed, that’s all.” He began pulling off Sutton’s boots. “If you’ll get that coffee for him, Tres and me will get him into bed.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Sutton. “Run along, child.”

  She left the room half hesitantly, as though reluctant to believe or to leave her father alone with Wall and Tres Debley. Working swiftly, they had Sutton between sheets before she got back, and after a survey of the wounded side, Wall straightened cheerfully.

  “Bleeding entirely stopped,” he announced, tucking the bandage back into place. “Be a little tender for a time, but if you don’t rush matters, you’ll be as fit as ever in a couple of weeks.”

  Sutton smiled up at him grimly. “Won’t be able to keep that date to ride Window Sash range and look for blotted brands tomorrow, Wall. But I intend to go through with it before long. Luke Lilavelt won’t rob me and get away with it. You can tell him I said so.”

  “Plain talk and necessary.” Wall nodded. “I’ll tell him.”

  Tracy Sutton came in with the coffee. Bart Sutton sat up and drank gratefully, nodding over the steaming cup. “Just what I needed. Takes right hold.”

  The girl had steadied. Some color was back in her face. Quietly she said: “Now, Dad … tell me.”

  Wall picked up his hat and moved to the door. “Debley and I will be getting along. Good luck.”

  Sutton said: “Take a good look at that man, Tracy. I don’t know why, but tonight he saved my life. Wall … obliged.”

  The girl followed them to the door, saying nothing. And when night’s outer dark had closed about him, Dave Wall still retained the picture of her as she stood there, slim and appealing in her shrouding robe, lamplight shining on the tumbled but fetching disarray of her hair.

  * * * * *

  The black chill of morning’s very early hours lay over the world when Dave Wall and Tres Debley turned their horses in at the home corral. Tres said, as he headed for the bunkhouse: “I won’t be quitting for a while, Dave. I’ll be riding with you. I’ve got a strange feeling about things. Good night.”

  There were other saddles along the saddle pole and the blankets spread on top of them still smelled of warm horseflesh. This indicated that the other four Window Sash riders had come in from town not too long before. Dave laid a long glance on the dark and silent bunkhouse and on the equally dark and silent cook shack where Hippo Dell slept. In the light of the past night’s violent happenings, he wondered what reactions would come from the men who slept there.

  Well, it didn’t particularly matter, he thought grimly. A hard and savage pattern that had held him prisoner for a long time was now beginning to break up. Circumstances unexpected and unplanned for had thrown a decision in his face and forced an answer. Anything could happen from now on. “Good night, Tres,” he said.

  He lay for some time on his bunk in the cabin, staring up at the black ceiling with wide, sleepless eyes. He was seeing and hearing many things again. That first stark, fixed picture when he stepped into the Rialto. His own intuitive reaction, the swift, harsh blasting of gunfire, dead men on the floor. The vast relief he had known when he saw that Bart Sutton’s wound was not serious.

  He was hearing again that little wailing cry of Tracy Sutton’s, on realizing her father was hurt. And seeing again the terror in her wide eyes. Remembering the picture she had made with the lamplight shining on her hair and shoulders. Remembering also the savage, hating
look she had thrown at him before she understood, and then her bewilderment just before he and Tres Debley left.

  All these things he lay and thought about and with the thinking came the inevitable realization that here, in these Crimson Hills, he, Dave Wall, had come to a dead end, so far as his usefulness to Luke Lilavelt was concerned. It wasn’t any concern over the fact that in siding Bart Sutton he’d directly and indirectly put two of Lilavelt’s riders dead on a saloon floor. He knew what Luke Lilavelt’s reaction to that would be, but he didn’t care. It was the sudden but definite change within himself that made the big difference.

  You couldn’t, he thought, save a man’s life and then set out to ruin him. You couldn’t bring calamity and sorrow down on the head of a girl like Tracy Sutton. Tres Debley had put it right. There were some jobs a man could not tackle and still go on believing himself even a thin shadow of a man. This was that kind of a job. Right here, right now, Dave Wall knew that he was all through with Luke Lilavelt and the Window Sash.

  What about the Connells? What about Judith and Jerry and the kids? Their future welfare and happiness were so completely tied in with his relationship with Luke Lilavelt, so dependent upon it. The day he cut loose from Lilavelt, that day he turned Lilavelt’s malignancy loose upon the Connells. This thing he had endured so much to prevent, now had to be, and it was up to him to seek some other answer to protect Judith and Jerry and the kids. He had ridden the dark trails long enough—maybe too long ever to emerge fully into the light again. But it came to him that here at last, for better or worse, he was his own man again.

  Strangely enough, now that this decision had been brought about, he felt an ease and relaxation he had not known for years. It flowed through him like a soothing current and he closed his eyes and slept. Later, roused slightly to a thin borderline between sleep and wakefulness, he thought, almost dreamlike, that he heard the soft clop of hoofs, moving off into the night. The sound died out before he could come fully awake, so he drifted off again and slept soundly until the jangle of the breakfast gong awakened him.