by J. T. Edson
For a moment the quartet stood digesting the news and not liking what it implied. In addition to the pay they received from Kerry, an extra sum came each man’s way out of Cyrus Corben’s pocket. Unlike Kerry, who paid the skinners by the day, Corben based his share on the number of skins brought in. None of the four considered their second employer to be a philanthropist—not that they knew the word—and were aware that no flints brought in meant no payment from the storekeeper.
“Cyrus Corben ain’t going to like you going back empty-handed,” warned Wingett, a lean bean-pole of a man with a face that many an undertaker might have wished to own for business purposes.
“I don’t reckon he is,” Kerry admitted, swinging from the saddle and drawing the carbine with his left hand as soon as his feet touched the ground. Not that he expected to need the weapon but because to have it in his hand had become as natural as donning his clothes in a morning.
“What about us?” Potter inquired sullenly.
“How’s that?” Kerry asked.
“Where do we come off for pay?”
“I’ll give you it for what you’ve done. Call it a week’s work a man.”
Which, as they were only a day out of Otley Creek and the men did nothing but hitch up and ride in the wagon, then make camp for the night, could be termed generous. Not that it struck the quartet in such a light.
“Corben ain’t going to pay us happen you pull out!” yelped Rixon, his avarice causing him to forget that the storekeeper’s payment should not be mentioned to the hunter.
“I never knew he did,” commented Kerry, seeing the light on a number of things. “I hired you and fix to pay you for what you do for me. Anything you do for Corben’s between you and him.”
With that, Kerry walked toward where his bedroll lay packed ready to be loaded on the wagon should it become necessary to move camp. All Kerry owned in the world, less a small deposit in the Otley Creek Merchants’ Bank, rested in the roll and he would never have left it at the camp except that he knew the quartet to be too afraid of his vengeance to touch it. Off to one side, picketed on good grazing, his sorrel mare snorted a welcome. She was a fine-looking animal, showing breeding, speed and stamina, and had won Kerry many a bet by her racing speed over a measured mile’s rough range country going.
Cold anger creased Potter’s face as he watched Kerry lay down the Sharps and reach toward the bedroll. Glancing at his companions, the skinner reached toward the knife at his hips. Shaun growled, deep and rumbling like the thunder in a distant storm. Powerful muscles bunched as the dog tensed, eyes full on Potter. Pivoting around, Kerry studied the hostile picture, for Potter froze immobile with his hand in the provocative position.
“I wouldn’t try it,” Kerry warned.
“Damn it to hell!” Potter burst out. “I was only going to loosen me knife.”
“Last man who did that behind my back wound up with Shaun sat on his chest, eating his face,” Kerry replied.
Not one of the quartet made another hostile move. Fear of the big dog held them in check, as did their knowledge of Kerry’s dexterity in handling the carbine. While not a gunfighter in the accepted sense of the word, Kerry, armed with his carbine, could have walked away from a facedown with many of the fast-draw kind.
Collecting his property without any further interruptions or objections, Kerry saddled the mare and slid the Sharps into its long boot on her rig. Then he turned and mounted the gray.
“Mind one thing,” he told the skinners. “That’s Corben’s wagon and team now.”
In their vindictive rage the four men might have smashed or deserted the wagon, but not knowing that it belonged to the storekeeper. He would never forgive them for its loss and had the means to make them regret rousing his anger.
Until his master passed beyond revolver range, Shaun stood facing the men and watching their every move. Then a whistle sounded and the dog whirled, streaking away at a pace that would have made him a difficult target should any of the quartet try throwing lead after him. None attempted such folly, knowing that Kerry Barran’s carbine could hit at ranges beyond their handguns’ possibilities.
“What now?” asked Rixon.
“We go back,” Potter answered. “Corben’ll see he don’t get away with it.”
Chapter 2
A DAY FOR MAKING ENEMIES
THE SCREAM OF A DOG IN AGONY, MINGLED WITH a deep, savage snarling, ripped through the noontime calm of Otley Creek. Citizens of the growing railroad town who heard the noise did not need to ask as to its cause.
“It’s Walt Sharpie’s Bully dog at it again,” one man said to his companion. “Some poor devil’s dog’s going under for sure.”
Out in front of the Gandy Gang Saloon a big crossbred hound churned the street’s dust as it stood over and savaged a collie pup foolish enough to cross its path. Standing on the saloon’s porch, Walt Sharpie and a bunch of his regular cronies watched, laughing, yelling encouragement and making no attempt to stop the big dog, despite the pleas of a tearful boy tightly held in his mother’s arms to prevent him trying to save his pup.
“Call it off, feller!” growled a cold, angry voice that did not belong to any child.
Sharpie swung his eyes unbelievingly in the direction of the speaker. Standing six foot in height, with heft, muscle and a deputy town marshal’s badge to support him, Sharpie found few men willing to interfere with his pleasure. His eyes took in Kerry Barran as the hunter sat the gray, with the sorrel fiddle-footing nervously alongside it. Then the deputy’s gaze went to where Shaun crouched by the horses, tense, watching the struggling dogs, but obedient to his master’s command to stay put.
“Who the hell asked you to bill in?” growled Sharpie.
“I said stop your cur,” Kerry answered.
“You stop him,” Sharpie challenged.
“Shaun!”
Only one word left Kerry’s lips. Like a flash the big wolfhound rose and charged forward. Sharpie roared out something and his dog looked up, seeing the approaching danger. Going at full speed, Shaun stretched right out and looked much smaller than his full size. So the other dog did not realize its danger. Big, heavy and hard it might be, but not compared with the huge wolfhound. Following its usual practice, Sharpie’s dog hurled itself straight at Shaun. Such a tactic never failed to bowl the other dog over and leave it at Bully’s flesh-ripping mercy—until tried on the mighty bulk of Shaun.
Crashing full into each other, it was Bully who reeled under the impact. Shaun’s momentum carried him forward and buckled the other’s hind legs to tumble it over backward. Instantly Shaun struck. A mouth with jaws strengthened by tearing flesh and crunching gristle and bone opened, to close on Bully’s unprotected throat, sinking home long, sharp, canine teeth with terrible crashing precision.
For once the gurgling screams of a dog in mortal agony did not herald another victim to Sharpie’s savage Bully. Legs flailing wildly the dog tried to struggle out from beneath Shaun’s crushing weight. Held under the jaw, Bully could not use his teeth in his defense and the relentless pressure on his throat gradually choked the life out of him; a process speeded by the wolfhound’s canine teeth cutting through the neck’s veins and arteries.
So sudden and unexpected had been Shaun’s reaction to Kerry’s command that none of the townsmen fully realized what was happening. Then it became apparent that for once Bully did not stand savaging a victim.
“Hey!” yelped Sharpie. “Get that cur offen Bully.”
“You get him off,” Kerry countered.
“By gawd, I will!” the deputy roared, and reached toward the Starr Army revolver at his right hip.
Tossing his right leg over the saddle, Kerry dropped to the ground. Even before he landed, his right hand collected the carbine from its boot. Lighting down with feet spread apart, legs slightly bent, he held the carbine hip-high and lined in the direction of the men before the Gandy Gang.
“Hold it!” he ordered, the lever blurring to feed a bullet into the bree
ch.
Hearing the double click and noticing the practiced ease with which Kerry handled the Winchester saddle-gun, Sharpie stood still and forgot his intention of drawing and throwing lead into the wolfhound. At his back, Sharpie’s companions assumed attitudes calculated to show their innocence and lack of objections.
“That’s my dog being killed!” Sharpie gritted.
“And that’s the boy’s pup your dog was killing,” pointed out Kerry.
“Shep’s not the first dog that mean old Bully’s killed!” yelled the youngster, pulling free from his mother’s grip and running to where the collie lay whimpering as it tried to get away from the center of the street.
A convulsive thrashing of Bully’s body almost dragged it free from Shaun’s grasp, but proved to be no more than a final dying spasm. After the desperate jerking, the heavy cross-bred dog went limp and lay still.
“Come away, Shaun!” Kerry ordered.
Releasing his hold, the wolfhound moved clear of the bleeding shape and stood stiff-legged, hair bristling, the front of his chest matted with gore from Bully’s torn throat. The youngster threw an admiring glance toward the big dog, but remained kneeling by his pup and cradling it in his arms.
“Good boy!” he enthused. “You sure taught that mean old Bully.”
“Don’t go near him, boy,” Kerry warned, and repeated his order to the dog.
“What about my dog?” Sharpie demanded as Shaun returned to Kerry’s side.
“Bury it,” Kerry replied and, without taking his carbine out of line on the men, looked toward the boy. “How is he, son?”
“He—he’s hurt, but I think he’ll—he’ll——” the youngster answered, face twisting in an effort to hold down tears of relief.
“You get somebody to help tote him along to Doc Sherrin’s office,” said his mother and swung toward Sharpie. “Wait until my husband hears about this.”
Just a touch of apprehension crossed Sharpie’s face as he realized that he might have made a very wrong move in allowing his dog to pick upon that particular pet. Too late he recognized the woman as wife to a prominent surveyor of some importance on the Union Pacific Railroad; which itself carried a whole heap of weight around Otley Creek. One of his cronies, showing all the stand-fast loyalty of a rat on a sinking ship, left the sidewalk and offered to help carry the injured collie to the veterinarian’s office. With the rot once started, the remainder of Sharpie’s companions moved away, dissociating themselves from his activities.
“Damn it!” Sharpie snarled, glaring at Kerry. “What about my dog?”
“I told you what to do,” the big hunter replied.
Catching hold of the saddlehorn in his left hand, Kerry went astride the gray Indian-fashion, his feet not touching the stirrup irons until he sat erect. So swiftly had the move been made that Sharpie found no chance of taking advantage during the brief period Kerry could not have used the carbine. By the time he saw the offered opportunity, it had come and gone.
“I’ll not forget this, skin-hunter!” Sharpie warned, feeling that he ought to do something but unsure of what, when and how.
Kerry did not trouble to reply. Starting the horses moving, he continued his interrupted ride along the street. Breast wet with Bully’s blood, Shaun moved after his master. Sharpie stood with a furious face but unable to think of anything adequate to say or do.
“And the Lord maybe knows why I did that,” Kerry mused, “but I don’t.”
From the expression on that mean cuss of a deputy’s face, Kerry reckoned he had made an enemy. Any smart-figuring man would be satisfied with the knowledge that his news was going to rile Cyrus Corben and avoid going around stirring up other troubles. Nothing Kerry had seen or heard about the storekeeper led him to expect a tolerant, understanding attitude when Corben heard of his decision.
Swinging to a halt before the long frontage of Corben’s store, Kerry made use of the only free facility offered by its owner. So far Corben had not found a way to make money out of folks hitching their horses to his rail; but Kerry figured it was only a matter of time before he did.
Standing behind the center counter, raised slightly so as to allow him an uninterrupted view of the whole of his establishment, Cyrus Corben glanced at the door, looked down toward the cash desk and jerked up his head to stare again. His narrow slitted eyes in a shallow face took in every detail of Kerry’s appearance and his rat-trap mouth grew even tighter. Rising on his tiptoes, Corben peered out of the glass-panelled top half of the door. The gray and the mare stood there, but no wagon.
“You had trouble, maybe?” he asked as the scout and dog halted before him.
“No. I’ve quit hunting.”
Concern over the loss of a valuable wagon died from Corben’s features and suspicion replaced it.
“How you mean, quitting?” he squawked.
“Just how I said. I’m through.”
“You can’t be through. There’s buffalo out there yet if you look for them. You didn’t go far enough out if——”
“I went out, found ’em and came back,” Kerry answered. “I’m through hunting buffalo.”
“And what about me?” Corben demanded.
“What about you?”
“I grubstaked you, fitted you out——”
“And’ve been paid back for it. You gave me the money, and I bought food, powder, lead, skinning knives—all off your shelves. Mister, you took it coming and going.”
“You took my offer eager enough.”
“And kept my part of the bargain. Your wagon’s coming back with everything but one day’s food still on it. I figure with what profit you make on it, we’re about evens.”
“You got no right to do this!” Corben wailed. “None at all. I’ve got your name on a grubstake contract——”
“Like I said, the wagon’s coming back, still loaded.”
“And what good does that do me? I could’ve sent out another man.”
“And still can,” Kerry pointed out.
“There’s time been lost,” Corben snarled.
“Two, three days, four at the most. What’s that mean?”
“Two thousand dollars, that’s what it means,” squealed the storekeeper before he could stop himself.
“Two thousand, huh?” Kerry said quietly. “At fifty flints a day, I’d make at most eight hundred.”
“So I made a bit of profit?” growled Corben.
“You made a hell of a good profit,” Kerry commented, thinking back on the number of flints he brought in during his previous trips and estimating their value at the prices Corben inadvertently quoted: “Mister, the only thing I felt bad about was letting you down. Now it doesn’t bother me any more, not one little bit. Get another stupid cuss to do your dirty work.”
“I’ll have the law on you!” shouted the storekeeper, leaning forward and slapping his palms on the counter’s top. He jerked back even more hurriedly as Shaun reared up, placing big feet on the counter and giving out a low growl.
“Easy, boy,” Kerry ordered.
The door of the store opened and a shadow fell in the pool of sunlight from it.
“You got trouble, Cyrus?” asked a voice.
Turning his head slightly, Kerry saw Town Marshal Berkmyer in the doorway. The marshal was tall, well built and sported the cutaway jacket, frilly-bosomed shirt, fancy vest and tight-legged trousers of a gambler. Around his waist swung a gunbelt, carrying a rosewood-handled Army Colt in a fast-draw holster. It had long been Kerry’s theory that Berkmyer held his post by bluff. Sure the gunbelt hung just right, but Otley Creek lay a piece too far West for the owner to run into real gun-fighting men.
“There is no trouble,” Kerry replied.
“There is some trouble,” contradicted Corben. “I’m having a process served on you to take my money back.”
“The wagon and supplies will cover that,” Kerry drawled.
“I’m not having that!” Corben spat out. “That wagon’s mine——”
�
��Not according to our contract.”
“Then there’s the supplies. I’ll have the value of them off you, even if it means taking your horses and that fancy Sharps buffalo gun.”
All in all, that ought to leave a margin of profit to satisfy even Corben. The gray gelding, of the deep-chested mountain-raised stock so favored by men who wished to travel far and fast, ought to bring in good money. Even more valuable, given the right market, would be the mare. Fast, agile, she could be sold as a racer, or for buffalo-running. Army officers on the Great Plains paid top prices for such a mount. Lastly, a Sharps Old Reliable rifle cost between a hundred and a hundred and fifty dollars new, but lost little in value while in hands as careful as Kerry Barran’s. On top of that, the supplies in the wagon could be either sold in the store or used to feed another hunting party. Corben knew all of that—and so did Kerry.
“You’ll take them?” asked the hunter.
“The law will!”
“If you get the judgment.”
“I’ll get it,” promised Corben. “See if I don’t.”
“He sure enough will,” Berkmyer put in.
Slowly Kerry swung around until he faced the marshal. His eyes ran slowly up and down the other’s elegant shape, coldly weighing up Berkmyer’s potential. Rumor had it that Corben exerted some influence and money to have Berkmyer taken on as town marshal and, if so, that meant he received a return for whatever he put out. Corben never spent a thin dime unless sure it would bring in at least a dollar profit.
“Just how do you figure in on this, then?” the big hunter asked.
“I’m marshal and responsible for keeping the peace.”
“Can’t see anybody breaking it. Or is pulling Corben’s chestnuts out of the fire something else you get paid to do?”
“Can’t say I like the sound of that,” Berkmyer growled.
“Take your grief up with the judge, Corben,” Kerry said, ignoring the marshal. “We’ll have it brought out in court—happen you want that.”
Something told Kerry that the storekeeper would not want too close an inquiry into the grubstake arrangement. The local judge was a keen hunter and Kerry had taken him out on a couple of short trips after elk or bear. Not that that was likely to influence the judge, but he could be relied upon to rule fairly and not be swayed by Corben’s position in the town. Come to a point, apart from the fact that a number of people owed him money—and repaid it at usurious rates—Corben had little standing in the town. Most folks would be only too pleased to see the storekeeper taught a lesson. In the final analysis, Corben would not want his dealing in the grubstake contract to be made public; not if he hoped to hire another hunter to replace Kerry.
