The Crimson Hills

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The Crimson Hills Page 10

by L. P. Holmes


  His pack horse had been following freely behind him. Now he herded it out ahead of him, drove it to a full, swinging trot, and kept it going that way until he’d put a full mile and a couple of ridges between himself and the Gravelly headquarters. Here he paused long enough to get a scabbarded Winchester, which he’d had tied with his other gear on the pack horse, and sling the weapon under his near stirrup leather. When Cube Spayd got his senses back, there could be pursuit and in a case of that sort a man needed a long-range weapon close to hand.

  Wall was still furious at himself. You’re a half-witted fool, he told himself harshly. You rode into that like some starry-eyed greenhorn and had more luck than you deserved, coming out with a whole skin. He recalled the shock he had felt on the heels of the single rifle shot Joe Muir had gotten away. Where had it hit? Certainly not him and his horse was full of vigor. He ran an exploring hand over his saddle, and along the back of the cantle his fingers encountered a long gouge of torn leather.

  That close had Muir come to getting him. Only that first forward and whirling lunge of his horse when he’d driven it into Cube Spayd had saved him. Only a few inches from a mortal body wound or savagely crippled hips.

  Yes, that was the sort of thing Luke Lilavelt had cooked up for him. Other than at Lilavelt’s orders there was no good reason why either Muir or Cube Spayd would have wanted his skin. Dislike him they might have, and probably did, but there was a considerable distance between dislike and the throwing of a gun at a man. Maybe Joe Muir had been playing with the idea of getting even with him because of Nick Karnes and Whitey Brewer, but Cube Spayd wouldn’t have been influenced by that, and in the deal just finished back at Gravelly, Spayd and Muir had tried to work the thing together. So it had to be the hand of Luke Lilavelt behind it all.

  The flaming anger had begun to die out in Dave Wall, replaced by a dark and forbidding grimness. This was the sort of thing he could now expect at any time and place where he met up with any of Lilavelt’s Window Sash riders. Lilavelt would see to it that the word would go out. Get Dave Wall. That was the way it would be. Maybe in his anxiety to get Wall off the trail, Lilavelt would loosen up and lay out a little blood money—a reward for Wall’s scalp.

  In any case it meant that from now on he was a marked man, that he could trust few men thoroughly and most not at all. It would be a lone-wolf sort of trail. And also, as he had put it to Cole Ashabaugh, a dangerous trail.

  For the next two hours, Dave Wall kept his horses steadily at it, swinging well east, then north. Several times, on some higher crest of ground, he paused for a survey of his back trail, but nowhere could he pick up any sign of pursuit. After that he eased down on the pace, mindful of the long drag ahead.

  He moved out of the rolling grass country and into the arid and hungry ground plain that bracketed the desert on the east. Just before sunset he found a trickle of brackish water in a badly eroded wash and set up there for the night. Around noon of the next day he rode into the town of Crater City.

  He came in quietly and warily and found the place almost somnolent in the trapped heat under the lava rim. At a rickety livery barn he left his horses, with orders for a good rubdown and a big feed of hay and grain. Then he sought an eating house to feed his own clamoring stomach.

  The place was small, just a single narrow room, with a counter reaching from side to side, faced by half a dozen long-legged stools. Beyond was a stove and a galvanized sink, several shelves of heavy-ware dishes, and a few cupboards. As the screen door closed behind Wall, a man came out of some shadowed depths beyond the stove. He was grizzled and gnarled and moved with a decided, swaying limp.

  Wall perched on a stool and said: “Whatever is quick and easy.”

  Soon a steak was frying, and, as he watched over it, the crippled cook threw several glances at Wall. He slid the steak onto a plate, spooned boiled potatoes beside it, put this and a cup of coffee and a platter of bread in front of Wall. And now he spoke for the first time.

  “Would you happen to be Dave Wall?”

  Wall, mindful of the happenings at Gravelly and the necessity of continued vigilance, stared coldly. “I might be. And if so … what about it?”

  The cook shrugged. “You got me wrong,” he said mildly. “I’m not tryin’ to pry. But if you are Wall, I thought you might be interested in seein’ Tres Debley.”

  Wall was still, remembering now. That first night when he and Tres Debley rode into this town, Tres had said something about dropping in to chin for a while with an old sidekick who’d taken to running a hash house after being crippled up by a range accident. Wall recalled the name. “You’re Charlie Ring?”

  “That’s right. Tres is out back. Eat your grub, and then I’ll take you back to see him.”

  Wall’s glance sharpened. “What’s he doing back there, hiding? Man, you talk like something was wrong with him.”

  “There is,” said Charlie Ring steadily. “He’s all beat to hell. That fat cook, Hippo Dell, out at the Crimson Hills Window Sash layout, worked him over … plenty. Oh, go ahead and finish your meal. Tres’ll keep. He’s sleepin’ a little now.”

  Wall, who had started to push away from the counter, settled back and began to eat. “When did all this take place?”

  Charlie Ring spread his elbows on the counter, leaned there. “Yesterday afternoon sometime, I guess. All I know is that Tres come stumblin’ in here just at dark last night, lookin’ like he’d been mauled by a grizzly. I got him into a bunk and fixed him up as good as I could. He wasn’t altogether clear in his head, but he kept mumblin’ somethin’ about Hippo Dell, so I figured it must ’a’ been Dell who’d been workin’ on him. It was considerable past midnight before Tres quieted down and got to sleep an’ he’s been sleepin’ ever since. I’m no sawbones, but I guess that’s the best thing for Tres right now, plenty of sleep.”

  It was almost as though some invisible current stirred Tres Debley when Dave Wall moved into that back room with Charlie Ring and stood beside the bunk where Tres lay. For Tres, who had been so deep in sleep, gave a groaning sigh and pawed weakly at his face with a wavering hand.

  A gusty, growling curse broke from Dave Wall’s lips. In his time he’d seen some badly beaten men, but never anything like this. Tres Debley’s face was almost unrecognizable. Everything seemed swollen to half again its normal size, just one great black and purple bruise. To all practical intent Tres was, for the time being, a blind man, his eyes hidden behind great rolls of bruised and beaten flesh. His lips were puffed and split and a three-inch cut across his forehead, just at the hairline, was freshly scabbed over.

  “There ain’t no doctor in this damn’ town,” said Charlie Ring. “But I did the best I could.”

  Dave Wall dropped a hand on Ring’s shoulder. “Sure … sure you did, friend. Now I’ll go to work. Bring me a bucket of hot water and half a dozen towels.” He leaned low over the bunk. “Tres … how you feeling? This is Dave Wall, Tres. Take it easy. We’re going to work some of the misery out of you.”

  Between putting one steaming hot compress after another on Tres Debley’s face, Dave Wall examined the cowboy for other hurts. Tres was sound of arm and leg, but he bore bruises about his body where heavy blows had landed. Tres, fully awake now, drained a big dipper of water that Charlie Ring brought in and later did the same with a cup of coffee liberally spiked with whiskey. Then slowly, because his battered lips were clumsy at framing words, he told Dave Wall about it.

  It had come out of a question of authority. Tres, left nominally in charge of Window Sash at Crimson Hills by Dave Wall, had issued a set of orders to Challis and Olds and Caraway, the three remaining riders. Hippo Dell, stepping out of his role as cook, had challenged these and given orders of his own. When Tres called him for it, Dell, without warning, had gone for him.

  “He’s fast, Dave,” mumbled Tres, “faster than you’d ever believe a man his size could be. And strong … like a d
amned bear. I didn’t have a chance to throw my gun. He took it away from me and then gave me what-for. It was like being hit by clubs when he threw his fists. I can’t remember much after the first time he hit me square. I know it was over, finally, and then there was somebody boosting me into my saddle. I think it was Harry Olds who was helping me. Sometime later I remember my horse coming down the lava rim above town, and I reckon it was more instinct than anything else that led me to this place of Charlie Ring’s. Anyhow, that’s it. Dave, don’t you ever tangle with Hippo Dell … not hand to hand. Use a gun on him, or an axe, or a pick handle … but don’t ever let him get hold of you solid. He ain’t human at all, just animal.”

  Chapter Seven

  It was dark when Dave Wall rode up to Bart Sutton’s headquarters at Sweet Winds. While still a full hundred yards from the ranch house a hard challenge rapped at him from the dark.

  “Far enough until I know you better! Who is it?”

  “Dave Wall. I’ve got some words for Bart Sutton that he ought to know.”

  “Dave Wall … eh? That’s Window Sash. Well, I got my orders from Bart Sutton to warm up the hide of any and all damn’ Window Sash hands who come prowling. But you did give Bart a helping break not too long ago, so you get one more chance. Head out of here. Drift! And don’t come back!”

  Wall eyed the dark warily. “Suppose you take the word to Sutton? Tell him I’m here. Tell him I want to see him. I won’t move from where I am until you get back. If Sutton doesn’t care to talk to me, then I’ll shove along. Use your head, man. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t serious.”

  “That’s what you say,” came the hard and wary answer. “But maybe I don’t believe you.”

  “Oh, hell!” snorted Wall in sharp disgust. “Here … I’ll give you my gun if you feel that way.”

  The guard was silent, considering. Then he said slowly: “All right. Stay put. I’ll see what Bart has to say.”

  Wall heard him move off, presently glimpsed a rectangle of yellow light as a door opened and shut. After a short interval that same door opened and shut again, and then boot heels clumped and the guard was saying: “You win, Wall. Bart says for you to come on in.”

  It was Tracy Sutton who met Dave Wall at the door. She was in gingham, crisp and cool. Her hair shone in the lamplight. Wall stood silently, looking at her so steadily a slight flush grew in her cheeks. “It was Dad you wanted to see, wasn’t it?” she asked pointedly.

  “That’s right. Didn’t mean to stare. But you … startle a man.”

  Her color deepened as she led the way to her father’s room. Sutton was sitting up, propped against pillows. He’d been reading. Now he eyed Dave Wall with some grimness. “’Evening, Wall. Hardly expected Lilavelt to send one of his best men around to inquire about my good health.”

  There was that in Sutton’s words and manner which puzzled Wall. A bitterness, a sarcasm, which certainly hadn’t been there the last time he’d seen the man. Sutton seemed to read a different meaning in Wall’s silence.

  “Damn it, Wall,” he burst out. “What kind of a man are you, anyhow? I thought, after the way you handled yourself in that affair in Crater City, that maybe your word in a matter was good. Maybe you didn’t mean it that way, but I inferred that while you were in charge of Lilavelt’s Crimson Hills layout, I could expect no further trouble there. I admit the idea was skimpy, what with you being Lilavelt’s pet troubleshooter and the guy who rolls the roughest of the rough stuff. But I still thought that … ah, well … wolf nature doesn’t change, does it?” Bart Sutton tossed a resigned hand and reached for the pipe that lay on the table by his bedside.

  Wall looked at him with steady gravity. “I don’t know what you mean, Mister Sutton.”

  “I mean,” snapped Sutton, “the kind of business that took place over on Soda Creek this morning.” He fixed Wall with a brittle stare. “Maybe you’ve come to serve me with an ultimatum, after that.”

  Wall shook his head. “None of it adds up for me. You see, I’ve been away for several days … for as long as you’ve been in bed with that wounded side, in fact. I’ve been down across the desert, to Basin. I just got back today and I’ve been nowhere near Crimson Hills as yet. I stopped over in Crater City and didn’t leave there until sundown. Just what did happen on Soda Creek?”

  “One of my men, Sandy Carter, was line riding along Soda Creek. From the Window Sash side, somebody opened up on him with a rifle at long range. Without a shred of cause, without any purpose. But they meant business. They were really out to get Sandy. They killed his horse and shot a boot heel off Sandy while he was ducking for cover. And you know nothing about that, Mister Wall … nothing?”

  A ripple of feeling moved across Wall’s face. He turned toward the door. “Wasting your time and mine. If you don’t believe me in one thing, then you won’t in anything else. Sorry I bothered you.”

  Tracy Sutton barred his way from the room. She faced him steadily, very grave, her sober eyes taking in the smoldering bleakness of him. “Please,” she said. Then to her father: “Dad, you’re being very stupid.”

  “Stupid, am I?” barked Sutton. “What … oh, hell … maybe I am. Have a chair, Wall. Sorry. But being laid up this way takes all the balance out of a man. That and trying to figure out what makes a Lilavelt man do this or that …”

  “Suppose we get one thing straight,” said Wall. “I’m not riding for Lilavelt any more.”

  Sutton reared up off his pillows. “Since when?”

  “Since the second I threw my gun on Nick Karnes. No. Looking back, I can see that I was really decided on it before that.”

  Bart Sutton considered this, slowly lying back on the pillows again. “If that’s the way things are, maybe you don’t mind my asking why you’ve come back into this neck of the woods again? You see, Wall, I’m only trying to get things straight.”

  “So am I,” said Wall. “For one thing I came to bring you word of something I think you’ll be interested in. Lilavelt is bringing five hundred head of cattle in from Gravelly, aiming to drive between Stinking Water and the Monuments.”

  Sutton’s eyes pinched down under frosty brows. “So the lightning is loose, eh? Held to that alone it wouldn’t mean much. But Lilavelt won’t stop there.”

  “No,” Wall agreed, “he won’t. If he gets away with that, he’ll go on from there. He’ll corner you if you let him.”

  Sutton’s face went still with sober thought. “All my life I’ve wanted only to live at peace with other men … always figured that the world was big enough for all of us. I never could see where there was any percentage in trying to push the other fellow around or having him push me. I still feel that way, but, of course, if I have to, I’ll fight for what’s rightfully mine. Frankly I don’t understand men like you, Wall … whose lives are geared to their guns. If you’ve broken with Lilavelt, as you say, and now bring me this word, it suggests that you want to hit back at Lilavelt through me. Am I right?”

  Wall nodded. “Quite. I’ve considerable of an axe to grind with Luke Lilavelt. And well …”—here he shrugged—“I don’t want to see you pushed over.”

  “You feel no allegiance to Lilavelt because of your past connections?” probed Sutton.

  Wall’s lips twisted. “Hardly.”

  “I have never knowingly,” said Sutton, “hired on a gunfighter to ride for me, and …”

  “You’re not hiring me,” cut in Wall, the harshness once more deepening in his face. “You couldn’t. I have something to say about that. Well, you now have the word I came by to give you. I’m glad to see you coming along … and I wish you luck.”

  This time he was out and gone before either Sutton or his daughter could stop him. They heard the ranch house door close behind him, and then silence settled over the room. Tracy moved over and sat on the edge of her father’s bed. Sutton stirred restlessly.

  “Damn it!” he bu
rst out. “I suppose you’re going to tell me again that I’m stupid?”

  Tracy shook her head. “No, Dad. I don’t know what to say. I can see your point … about not hiring him, I mean. After all, he is Dave Wall. After what he’s been to Luke Lilavelt …” She went still again.

  Sutton reached out, captured his daughter’s hand. “We’re in the man’s debt, you and I. And there’s a certain sincerity in him. Considering all these things, it’s hard to keep my judgment fair and clear. I appreciate the word he brought, and I’ll act on it, of course. But I’d hate to feel that I was being used to satisfy one man’s grudge against another. Youngster, this is a mixed-up state of affairs and I don’t want to make any mistakes.” He thought for a moment. “Go tell Spike Spears I want to see him.”

  He watched her as she went out. Everything that was worthwhile in life to Bart Sutton was tied up in this bright-haired daughter of his. Everything that he had built and amassed. And more—his hopes for her future. Watching her grow up, move into young womanhood, he pondered the day when some man would step up to claim her hand. A realist, he expected perfection in no man. But he did ask an honorable name and a reasonable promise of happiness for his girl.

  As yet, he’d seen Tracy display no undue interest in any man until … He shook his head. It didn’t add up or make sense. Probably it was Dave Wall’s dark reputation that held a sort of macabre fascination for her young mind. Such things happened. A thoroughly bad man was always more interesting than a thoroughly good one. Or it could be that Tracy merely felt a sense of honest gratitude and obligation to Wall for what he had done for them. Or maybe he was just imagining things …

  He shifted, restless again, winced at the reminder his wounded side set up, then swore fumingly.

 

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