The Crimson Hills

by L. P. Holmes

  “Couldn’t pick a better man,” agreed Dave. “If he’ll do it.”

  “He’ll do it,” vowed Ashabaugh, “and be glad of the chance. He’ll be on his way out to the ranch before sundown. Now, I’ll buy a drink … if you’ll do me the honor.”

  Their eyes met and they swapped hard grins. They understood each other completely. They tramped along to Mize Callan’s Empire House, turned in to the cool, half gloom of the place. Among others, Oren White was there, thickset, florid of face. White ran a small spread south of town, but was a man who was never going any place, because he gambled and drank up what profits his ranch brought in as fast as they accrued.

  Once Oren White had laid ardent suit for Judith Wall’s hand, before Jerry Connell came along to claim it completely. Judith had never cared for the man, though her nature would not let her be anything but pleasant toward him. Dave Wall had never liked White, either, but had not interfered in any way, confident that his sister’s innate fineness and good judgment would not be overly impressed by White. This was how it had turned out and White, arrogant and intolerant and ever the poor loser, had turned sly venom on the Connells and particularly on Dave Wall, plainly showing that he felt that Dave had influenced Judith against him.

  Dave’s going to work for Luke Lilavelt, with the subsequent dark reputation this inevitably built, had furnished White with plenty of material to work on. In a number of different ways he had worked to turn public opinion against Dave, missing no opportunity to drive the knife ever deeper and to twist it more savagely.

  The man was smooth and clever at this sort of thing. With a word, a look, a suspended motion, or turn of a shoulder, he managed to convey much. He was at the bar now, rolling one-flop poker dice for the drinks, with Mize Callan, Buck Sorenson, and Pat Shea. As Dave Wall and Cole Ashabaugh faced the bar a little farther along, White said, sotto voce: “I heard a man saying something once about the dignity of the law. He must have been joking.”

  Dave Wall came around, his eyes going dark. That was Oren White for you, making a remark that could be interpreted two ways, and wanting it so. Though apparently directed at Cole Ashabaugh, the inferred slur was against the man Ashabaugh was drinking with, Dave Wall.

  Before Dave could say a word, it was Ashabaugh who shot it back at Oren White, shot it fast and harsh. “White, you save my self-respect. I thought I’d been the biggest damn’ fool in the state. I was wrong. I was only the second biggest. You win first prize in a walkaway. And besides me, there’s a flock of lesser fools, some of them present. Mize … a little service!”

  Mize Callan, always a tough man, put out bottle and glasses, growling: “Cole, when you’ve been eating raw meat, best wait until the effect wears off before you land in here all spraddled out. Just because you wear a badge gives you no license to come into my place and label me a fool. Cut it fine.”

  “Mize,” said the sheriff, “I’m going to tell you a story. Then I’ll let you be the judge.”

  “No, Cole,” cut in Dave Wall swiftly. “We just came in here for a drink, not to beat any drums. As for White, his mouth has always been bigger than his brain. He just naturally can’t help drooling.”

  Raw color turned Oren White’s naturally florid face a brick red. He slammed down the dice box, pushed past Buck Sorenson and Pat Shea.

  “Wall, you may be a tough cookie with that gun on, but …”

  Dave made two swift jerks with his hands, and his belt and holstered gun fell to the floor.

  “Not on now, White. You full of ambition?”

  Mize Callan slapped a hard palm on the bar top. “Wall, I warned you once before not to start …”

  Now it was Cole Ashabaugh who cut in, his tone dryly cold. “Mize, you keep damn’ well out of this. I mean … out! Some things can only be settled one way. This is one of them. Take your gun off, White … or make your little bow and back down.”

  This was the way it could be with Cole Ashabaugh when he thought the occasion warranted it. A streak of toughness had jumped out of him that gave them all pause. His blue eyes burned with a cold flame.

  Mize Callan shrugged and put both hands on the bar. Buck Sorenson and Pat Shea stepped well back, Sorenson saying mildly: “I never begrudge room to them who need it to ruff their feathers in. I’m willing to watch. I might even enjoy it.”

  Cole Ashabaugh’s voice was whip sharp. “I’m waiting, White. Shuck that gun and show the color of your marbles. You’ve been making a certain kind of talk much too big and for much too long. So now you flap your wings, or you crawl.”

  Oren White cursed, shucked belt and gun. And then he went straight in at Dave Wall, head pulled deep between his meaty shoulders and with both fists swinging.

  Dave ducked one flailing punch, took another on the point of a hunched shoulder, and got home a solid wallop of his own under Oren White’s heart. But it was not enough to stop White’s charge, so now they came together heavily and lurched into the bar. There was not much to choose between the two of them where weight was concerned, but Dave was a little the taller, raw-boned where White was thick and burly.

  White had a shoulder against Dave’s chest and with thick legs spread and braced, held Dave against the bar, while he slammed both fists against Dave’s board-hard midriff. The man could hit. The punches hurt, sending Dave’s breath rocketing up into his throat.

  Dave pushed his right hand up, inside, got the heel of it under White’s chin, and, even as White hit him twice more in the body, put everything he had into a savage lift. The effort snapped White’s head back, sent him whirling aside, and Dave got clear of the bar, shifting swiftly to catch White coming back in and nailing him with a driving smash to the face. The blow brought blood and shook up White, stopping his rush completely. He gave back a couple of steps, scrubbed a hand across his bloody mouth.

  Dave Wall was glad of this short respite. Those four solid body wallops White had landed had not done Dave a bit of good and he fought hungrily for air. One thing he knew. He had to keep away from this man and not let him get in on the same target again, at least not until the first effects began to wear off. That was how it was with body punishment—it stayed with you. A blow to the head might stun and daze momentarily, but could soon be shaken off. Not so with body wallops. They dragged you down, took it out of you.

  Oren White seemed to understand what was going on in Dave Wall’s mind, for now he gathered himself and came in once more with that low, heavy rush. Dave sidestepped and belted him across the temple as he went by. It was the hardest blow Dave had so far got across and it knocked White floundering into a poker table that skidded off at a wild angle and let White down with a crash. He rolled over, got to his hands and knees, and stayed there for a short moment, shaking his head. Then he came up again, crouched and a little more wary.

  Now Dave began moving in. He speared a long, battering left to White’s crimsoned mouth, feinted with his right, then put two more of those lashing lefts to White’s sore lips. These seemed to madden White, for he bawled a hoarse curse and came in with another headlong, pawing rush. This time Dave did not try and sidestep. Instead, he set himself, dropped his knees together, and lifted his right fist into White’s body, just under the heart. It was a duplicate of the first punch Dave had landed in the fight, but much harder, carrying everything he had behind it. It hurt Oren White wickedly.

  Breath came out of him in an explosive gasp, almost a groan, and the punch seemed to hang him on his toes, while his pawing hands flailed, wild and useless. Then he came down on one knee, both hands flat on the floor for support. His head rocked from side to side like that of a wounded bear, and blood dribbled down from his sagging, battered lips. His eyes glared up in bitter hate and the pulse of fury throbbed in his throat and temples.

  He reached a pawing hand, got hold of a round-backed chair, used it as a support to get to his feet again. Then he steadied himself, swung the chair high, and thre
w it at Wall. Dave couldn’t avoid the thing, so took the impact on outthrust and fending arms and, as the chair glanced aside, knew a gust of gray and blinding rage. Up to this point the fight had been reasonably straight up and down, fists against fists. But if this was the way White wanted it, Dave swarmed at his man, beating down White’s thick arms, clubbing him to the face and body. He got an arm around White’s neck, got a hip under him, and threw him, hard. From the floor White kicked Dave’s feet from under him and now they were both down, locked and rolling. Dave got a knee in the ribs and an elbow in the mouth and tasted the swift salt of his own blood. He got a blind fist in the center of the forehead and things grew dull and sluggish in him. He managed to pull clear and lurch to his feet again, and it felt as though some enormous weight were on his shoulders.

  White got up even more slowly. His mouth was wide open and every reach he made for air was a raw and sobbing gasp. Wall went for him with short, spread-legged steps. His fists seemed cased in invisible weights, for it took a distinct effort to raise each one and push it at White. But they traveled and they hit, and White’s head rolled weakly and he went down again, and Dave Wall wobbled around like a drunken man, not knowing that in thick, blurred tones he was reviling White and telling him to get up and take the rest of it.

  Somebody had Dave Wall by the shoulder, pulling him back, talking to him. It was Cole Ashabaugh, and Cole was too strong to be pushed aside. He herded Wall to the bar.

  “That’s a big plenty, Dave. No use calling on him to get up … he can’t. He’s whipped complete and you’re not doing so well yourself. Yeah, ease up and call it a day.”

  The support of the bar was good. Dave lay against it, his elbows hooked on it, his head bent while the effort of his labored breathing shook him all over. To Buck Sorenson and Pat Shea, Cole Ashabaugh ripped a sharp order.

  “Get White on his feet and out of here. Clean him up a little first so folks won’t think a murder has taken place. Mize, let’s have your water bucket and a couple of bar towels.”

  The caressing chill of a wet bar towel was a benediction against Dave Wall’s face and presently, when the effort of breathing was no longer a raw and salty rasp across his throat, a stiff three fingers of whiskey took hold and steadied him. He looked across the bar at Mize Callan.

  “What’s the damages?”

  Callan shrugged. “One busted chair. Cheap ticket to a good show. But it’s too bad you can’t turn that kind of fighting ability to a better end, Wall.” There was no slightest shade of friendliness in either the saloonkeeper’s tone or glance.

  “Mize,” said Cole Ashabaugh, “you can be awful damn’ thickheaded without half trying. By this time you should be thinking instead of just talking.” The sheriff handed Wall his belt and gun. “There’s a bunk over in my office, Dave. Go use it for a while. I’ll be over pretty quick.”

  Dave nodded wearily. “That listens good.”

  He cuffed his hat into shape, donned it, and walked out, apparently quite steady. But no one could guess how his belly muscles were shaking and how rubbery his legs felt. He’d left a lot of energy in that barroom.

  Mize Callan stared at the empty doorway, then threw his hard glance at Ashabaugh. “So I’m a fool and I’m thickheaded. I talk when I should be thinking. Maybe you got another answer?”

  “I think so.” The sheriff nodded. “Would I have let that go on without good reason? You might have figured that, Mize.”

  “Why did you let it go on? With Wall being what he is …”

  Ashabaugh cut in bluntly. “Dave Wall is a good man … a damn’ good man. In his way bigger than you, Mize … bigger than me. Oren White’s been asking for what he got for a long time. It’s a lesson that could be applied to a lot of people. I’m hoping it sticks. Now here’s a little story.”

  So then Cole Ashabaugh told the story and for some time after Mize Callan was silent. Then he reached for his private bottle.

  “All right,” he growled, “the drink’s on me. I had no idea.”

  “A lot of people didn’t,” said Ashabaugh mildly. “Including me. But now you know why Dave Wall worked for Lilavelt. You don’t need to tell everybody the story, Mize, but you can sit on any loose talk you hear from now on.”

  The sheriff downed his drink, turned, and went out. At the office he found Dave Wall stretched on the bunk. He showed the sheriff a twisted grin. “That guy was tough, Cole.”

  “Showed more than I thought he had,” agreed Ashabaugh. “He took a beating.”

  “He … and somebody else,” murmured Wall. “Me.”

  Ashabaugh went over to his battered old desk, got out a pipe, loaded it, and puffed in silence, perching on a corner of the desk. “What worries me,” he said abruptly, “is how things are going to stand now between you and Lilavelt, Dave. What do you intend to do?”

  Wall stared up at the ceiling, his face slowly pulling into harsh lines. “Lilavelt made me a promise … I made him one. His was that the day I jumped the traces and refused to do any more of his dirty work, he’d expose Jerry Connell. Mine was that when and if he did that … I’d kill him.” Wall stirred restlessly and his voice went cold. “Lilavelt kept his promise.”

  Puffing hard at his pipe, Cole Ashabaugh got off the desk, took a couple of turns up and down the length of the office. “It can’t be as simple as that, man.”

  “Put yourself in my place, Cole,” said Wall. “A damned dirty sidewinder gets a club over your head. He really steals four good years of your life. He makes a dog out of you. He drives you into a spot where your friends turn away from you. He robs you of your good name, makes a damned pariah out of you. He’s set to ruin the lives of those who mean most to you in the world … your only sister, her husband, and three little kids. Well …?”

  “Sure,” said Ashabaugh quietly, “I know exactly what you mean. I’d feel just like you do. I’d want to walk him into a corner and fill him full of buckshot. I’ll even agree … privately, of course … that he has it coming to him. But you can’t do it, Dave. I’ll tell you why. In the first place, it would be murder, for Luke Lilavelt would never go for a gun against you, and so give you the out of an even break. And so, I’d have to arrest you for murder.” The sheriff tamped his pipe more firmly, scratched a freshening match. “Admitting that Luke Lilavelt is about as unsavory as they come, the cold fact remains, Dave, that the man cuts a big figure in some ways and some places. He’s got money and property and power and those things reach far. And while there are no doubt some others who work for him who don’t like him any better than you do, it’s likewise true that he’s got plenty on his payrolls who’d ride a long way with him. His affairs wouldn’t prosper as they have if that wasn’t true.”

  Wall, remembering Nick Karnes and Whitey Brewer, Joe Muir and Hippo Dell, nodded. “You’re right there, Cole … he’s got that kind with him. But after he was dead …”

  “They’d raise hell and put a rock under it,” said the sheriff bluntly. “Oh, in time his organization, minus its head, would fall apart. But before it did, it could hit out plenty wild in a lot of directions and hurt a lot of innocent people. Here’s another angle. Politics. Nothing is more cold-blooded. There are men up at the state capital who got there and who stay there because of votes that Luke Lilavelt has been able to deliver at the proper time and place. How would they feel if you knocked a prop from under them? Man, would they be screaming for your neck.”

  “Let ’em,” rapped Wall. “Hell with ’em.”

  “And finally,” went on Cole Ashabaugh evenly, “is the most important thing of all. Right now I’ve got your brother-in-law, Jerry Connell, locked up, facing a couple of damn’ stiff charges. Let’s not fool ourselves there, Dave. Oh, I know that Judge Masterson is going to do all he can for Jerry … and he can do a lot. Still and all, I’d hate to have to bet a leg on how Jerry’s affair will come out. But I do know this. You go gunning for Luke Lilavelt ri
ght now and you’ll hurt instead of help Jerry’s chances. Better think on that, Dave.”

  Wall did think on it and with blinding abruptness he realized that Cole Ashabaugh was speaking the cold and bitter truth. “Damn you, Cole,” he muttered. “You’ve taken my gun right away from me. And after waiting so long …”

  Cole Ashabaugh drew a deep breath of relief. He knocked the dottle from his pipe and tossed it back into the desk drawer. “The last deal Lilavelt sent you on … that was the one you gagged on, wasn’t it? Something about it that made you kick over the traces? Why?”

  Wall was silent for a time, brooding. Then he began speaking slowly, and he told the sheriff the whole story of the affair in the Crimson Hills country. He told of Bart Sutton and the Square S and what he was convinced Lilavelt intended toward Sutton. He told of the shootout in the Rialto in Crater City, and how and why Nick Karnes and Whitey Brewer had died. “So that was it, Cole,” he ended. “I downed Karnes and Sutton killed Brewer. Bart Sutton is a damned fine man. I just couldn’t go against him. When I saw how it was in the Rialto, there wasn’t the slightest doubt in my mind which way to move. I gunned Karnes so that Bart Sutton might live. That was where I was all done with Lilavelt.”

  “Things happen,” said Ashabaugh, “that I don’t even hear about, it seems. Well, it’s a damn’ big county and I can’t be everywhere. At best I can only hope to keep the lid on fairly tight. Do you think that Lilavelt will go on trying for Sutton’s hide, anyhow?”

  Wall considered for a moment, then nodded. “I think so. He can hardly afford to back out now. If he did pull away, why then a lot of others riding for him … men of the same stripe as Karnes and Brewer were … would begin to wonder. They’d begin to figure that in a tight pinch, Lilavelt wouldn’t back them up. That kind of thinking would weaken the Window Sash organization all down the line. Lilavelt is smart and foxy enough to realize that. So … he’ll keep on after Sutton.”