Texas Men

by Paul Evan Lehman

He dropped from sight behind the bowlder, only to reappear mounted on a powerful bay horse. A rifle slanted across the saddle menacingly. “Take the ropes off’n him, and git yore animals. Lee, you’d better set powerful quiet. By cripes, I’m honin’ to fill you with lead to pay you for them irons you put on me.”

  “Work yoreself into a rage,” Bob suggested. “It’ll help make you forget the rope necktie that you’re goin’ to wear as sure as I’m alive.”

  “You won’t be alive long, fella. If it wasn’t plumb against orders I’d drop you right now.”

  “Whose orders?”

  “None of yore business! Shut yore trap. All right, you two; don’t be all day gettin’ them hawsses. One of you on each side, and if he makes a break plug him. By cripes, I hope he tries it!”

  Pete Grubb walked ahead leading Bob’s horse; the two rope throwers flanked him alertly, and the redhead brought up in the rear. Bob could almost feel the hot intensity of the red-lidded eyes that were focused on a spot between his shoulders.

  Several men came from the cabin as they approached, to stand staring curiously at the captive sheriff. They were hard-faced men, of varied sizes and ages; but all wore guns, and all appeared quite ready to use them.

  “This all you got, Shab?” asked one of them. Bob mentally noted the name—Shabo It seemed to fit.

  “Enough, ain’t it? It’s the second time the danged fool come nosin’ around the hills. It’ll be his last too! Git off yore hawss, Lee.”

  Bob dropped to the ground. Shab poked his rifle in its scabbard, dismounted, and came shuffling over to him with that peculiar gait Bob had noticed. He stood before Lee and let his evil eyes roam over him slowly.

  “I reckon you know what you’re lettin’ yoreself in for,” Bob reminded him. “I’m the law, and I have three deputies that are hell-on-wheels when they get started. They’ll shore make you hard to find.”

  Shab spat. “I don’t scare worth a damn. A fat chance they got to trail you back here. We know you come in alone. Four of the boys picked you up back there in the park where you—where you—”

  “Put the cuffs on you. Wrestled you down and put ’em on you, Red. Handled you just like a sack of oats, didn’t I?”

  “Dang you!” blazed Shab, and struck him viciously in the face.

  Bob reeled from the blow, his head snapping back and tearing open the half-healed wound. Swift as a flash his right leg came up, straightened, and a powerful boot-clad foot caught Shab in the pit of the stomach. As the red-head doubled in agony, Bob leaped forward and his right fist came up in a blow that lifted Shab from his feet and hurled him flat on the ground.

  They were on him then, fully a half-dozen of them. Bob flailed about with fist and foot, elbow and knee; but they swarmed over him like bees on a honey comb, kicking, striking, gouging. He could feel the warm blood from his wound trickling down his shoulder and soaking his shirt.

  Pete Grubb, little eyes alight with anticipation, danced about the milling knot of men, sixgun balanced and ready. For an instant Bob’s head showed above those of his assailants. Pete brought the barrel of the heavy Colt down on his skull, and Bob wilted like a boiled rag.

  When he recovered consciousness he was in complete darkness and bound hand and foot. His neck was throbbing and his head felt as though it had been mashed to a pulp. For some minutes he lay fighting the pain and nausea; then he became aware of the drone of voices, audible above the intolerable buzzing in his ears. Slowly he worked to a sitting position, his back against a wall. He concluded that he was in a leanto built against the cabin. The walls were of logs and the door was closed, probably padlocked.

  Now that he had shifted his position the voices came to him less clearly. He lay flat again, moved about until the words became distinguishable. A bit of the chinking between the logs had dropped from its place, leaving an opening about an inch wide and two or three inches long. Bob peered through it, but could see nothing, and judged that the hole was beneath a bunk. The voices were those of several men playing poker, and for a while the conversation was confined strictly to the game.

  Presently Bob heard the thud of hoofs outside the cabin, then the door slammed and a voice said, “Hello, gang. How’s chances of sittin’ in?”

  It was Dick Markley.

  One of the players answered. “Shore. Pull up a box.” For a moment there was silence while the cards were riffled, then: “Got a friend of yores in the leanto. Bob Lee.”

  “Bob Lee!”

  “Yeah. Come traipsin’ in here followin’ cattle sign. Gloomy and Sam roped him while he was settin’ his horse admirin’ our layout.”

  “Did he put up a scrap?”

  “I’ll tell a man he did! The son-of-a-gun dang near busted my jaw. Holy bobcats, but he can fight! And Shab was fit to be tied. Lee rubbed it into Shab about wrasslin’ him down and puttin’ irons on him, and Shab hit him square on the jaw. Lee ups and kicks Shab in the belly and socked him so hard on the chin he come near to knockin’ him into Cactus County. Shab took the count—five or six of ’em in fact. We jumped Lee, and Pete Grubb beaned him with a pistol bar’l. I reckon he’s still asleep.”

  “What does Shab aim to do with him?”

  “Well, he cain’t do nothin’ until we hear from the boss. But if Shab had his ruthers he’d likely stake him out on a ant hill for a day or two, then hang him in a tree, soak him with kerosene, and flip burnin’ matches at him.”

  “For Pete’s sake!” came an impatient voice. “Is this a poker game or a sewin’ circle? Who can open this danged pot?”

  “I’ll open her,” said somebody, and from then on the conversation reverted to poker.

  The thin streak of light beneath the leanto door became dimmer, the surrounding objects less distinguishable. A man, evidently the cook, quit the game and started rattling pots and pans. Some time later, a number of horses circled the lean to, and from the sounds Bob judged that they were being stripped and turned into a corral. Presently the riders clumped by his prison and entered the cabin.

  “Well, we hazed our bunch in,” said one of them. “The last of ’em will get in tomorrow. Then we can drive as soon as we get the word.”

  “Where’s Shab?” somebody asked.

  “He’s comin’. Say, that Texas fella musta busted him cock-eyed. His chin is blue and he shore is hard to get along with.... Hey, Doc, ain’t that chow ready yet?”

  “Comin’ right up,” answered the cook.

  Another horse passed the leanto, and after awhile its rider entered the cabin. Bob was not left in doubt as to his identity. He had hardly stepped inside the room before his rough voice was berating the players.

  “What in time do you hairpins mean by sittin’ around like this? Ain’t there nothin’ to be done in this camp? Put up them cards and git this table outa the way. Dick, yore hawss is standin’ outside. Turn him into the corral. Doc, dish up the grub.”

  “Comin’, Shabo How about Lee; you goin’ to feed him?”

  Shab uttered a string of oaths. “If I catch you feedin’ that lousy son I’ll bust you wide open! Let him go hungry; he won’t be needin’ food when I git the word to go ahead with him.”

  Bob’s lips tightened and he rolled away from the opening. Dick was passing the lean to on his way to the corral and Bob thought he had detected an inclination on Markley’s part to loiter. Bob continued rolling until he brought up against the outer wall. Presently he heard Dick’s returning footsteps, and kicked lightly against the logs. The footsteps halted, then came a cautious voice: “Bob!”

  “Right here,” answered Lee softly. “Against the wall.”

  “Bob, I cain’t do a danged thing for you now. Shab would drill me if he even thought I was talkin’ to you.”

  “There’s a hole in the chinkin’ about opposite where I am now and close to the floor,” Bob told him. “Reckon it’s under a bunk.”

  “Keno,” whispered Dick, and moved on.

  Time passed. To Bob’s ears came the clink of knife and fork, the r
attle of plate and tin cup. He judged that there were at least a dozen men in the cabin. At last the scrape of chair and box announced the conclusion of the meal. Some of the men went outside; others started another game.

  “Where’s the lantern?” came the harsh voice of the red-headed man.

  “Hangin’ behind the stove,” the cook answered. “I’ll get it for you.”

  Bob rolled away from the wall and lay staring at the darkness overhead. A crack of light appeared under the leanto door, somebody fumbled with the lock, then the door swung open and Shab Cannon came in. Holding the lantern high, he peered through the gloom, red-lidded eyes glinting.

  “Awake, huh?” he grunted. “Well, pretty soon you’re goin’ to sleep for a long, long while. The jack is shore goin’ to be missin’ from that seven-up combination. By cripes, I’d like to plug you right here and watch you squirm!”

  Bob eyed him contemptuously. “You’re yellow enough to do it. Maybe you’d better wrap some more rope around me, though, before you start.”

  Shab leaped forward and kicked him in the ribs. “Shut yore trap! I ain’t takin’ no lip from you!”

  Bob threw caution to the winds. Doubling up his bound legs, he pivoted on his back and lashed out at Shabo Only Cannon’s quick backward leap prevented the wicked blow from landing. The red-head was furious.

  “Why, you dam’ wildcat!” he yelled, and leaped forward again. Bob rolled away to avoid the booted feet, and before Shab could catch up with him Dick Markley ran through the doorway and grabbed his arms.

  “Cut that out, Shab! What kind of man do you call yoreself, actin’ that-away?”

  “You keep outa this!”

  Dick tightened his grip. “Hush up and listen to me! You’re wanted in the cabin. Somebody’s comin’. You hear me?”

  Shab growled a profane protest, but Dick remained steadfastly between him and Bob, and the red-head finally slouched from the leanto. Dick followed closely, and the door was slammed. In the hope that Markley had contrived to leave the lock unfastened, Bob got to his feet and hopped over to the door. His hope was in vain; the padlock had been properly replaced.

  At the approach of hoofbeats, he hopped back to his place by the wall. Lying down on the ground he placed his ear to the crack. The door opened and voices were raised in greeting.

  “Howdy, boys,” greeted the newcomer.

  Bob stiffened and pressed his ear closer to the opening. One of the connecting links had been found. The man who had spoken was Kurt Dodd.

  CHAPTER XI

  A DEBT IS SQUARED

  THE confusion subsided when the men had gathered about the table. The first voice was that of Shab. “Kurt, I’m glad you come over. Let’s git this business of the prisoner outa the way. What’s to be done with him?”

  “Get rid of him.”

  “Ha! Now you said somethin’! I’ll fix his clock. Forty feet of rope and a nice high limb.”

  “Not that way, Shab. We’d be makin’ a hero out of him. Every man within fifty miles of Lariat would be in the hills after us. Remember, we got to get a thousand head of stock to Vandervort as soon as we can. Lee must go accidental-like. That lets us out, and at the same time fixes things jest like we want ’em. When a sheriff dies in office, you know, his successor is appointed by the governor.”

  “How you aimin’ to git rid of him?”

  “All sorts of accidents can happen to a man. He can get mixed up in a landslide, his hawss can throw him on some rocks, he can bog down in quicksand, get caught in a stampede or drown in a river.”

  “That quicksand idea is no good, Kurt. There wouldn’t be anything left of him.” Bob recognized Cole Bradshaw’s voice.

  “Why kill him at all?” asked Dick. “Make him sign a paper sayin’ things are too hot for him and that he’s resignin’ his job. Then escort him out of the country and have another sheriff appointed.”

  “That’s shore a bright idee,” sneered Shab. “I got a pitcher of him stayin’ away. Friend of yores, ain’t he?”

  “Not now. He’d run me in as quick as he would the rest of you.”

  “That won’t do, Dick,” said Kurt. “We gotta be shore he’s out of it for good. That’s settled; the only thing remainin’ is to decide how to fix him.”

  “That cattle stampede idea sounds good to me,” said Bradshaw. “After a coupla hundred steers get done walkin’ over a fella nobody could tell if he died before or after the stampede.”

  “The Bottle Neck was made to order for that,” said another. “We got to drive through there anyhow. Knock him out and plant him plumb in the middle, then haze ’em through at a run.”

  Shab broke in eagerly. “Yeah! And that means we can string him up first! I’d kinda set my mind on that.”

  “All right,” agreed Dodd. “That’s settled. First thing in the mornin’.”

  “Why cain’t we hang him tonight?” complained Shab.

  “No sense in it. We’d have to keep his body here and if somebody did drop in on us we’d have a hard time explainin’ how we got a dead sheriff for comp’ny. First thing in the mornin’.”

  Bob lay close to the wall listening to the callous discussion. The prospect was far from bright. Even if Dick wished to help him there was little he could do. Shab had the padlock key, and even were Dick able to get possession of it he would be given no opportunity to use it. He was known as a friend of the sheriff, and as such would be closely watched.

  Inside the cabin the talk switched to other channels, and presently Dodd and Bradshaw departed. Shab Cannon gave a curt order.

  “You fellas turn in early; we got work to do tomorrow. And I’ll be up and around most of the night. I don’t want to catch anybody walkin’ in his sleep.”

  “You talkin’ to me?” asked Dick sharply.

  “I’m talkin’ to all of you. I don’t want nobody monkeyin’ around that leanto.” Shab left the cabin and Bob heard him shuffle past his prison.

  “Well, I’m goin’ to turn in.” Dick’s voice came from a point directly over Bob’s peep hole. Lee heard him walk across the floor; then came the tinny clink of dipper on water pail.

  Markley returned to the bunk and pulled off his boots, dropping them noisily to the floor. Bob heard him swear softly. One of the gang asked,

  “What you lose, Dick?”

  The reply came from so close to Bob’s face that he stiffened expectantly.

  “Dropped a dollar. Rolled under the bunk.” A match flared and Bob had a fleeting view of Dick’s questioning eyes. He hissed softly to attract Dick’s attention and drew back from the opening. A black object was thrust through the inch-wide crack.

  Bob wormed his way along the wall until his bound hands came in contact with the object. Carefully he drew it through the opening—a long, thin-bladed butcher knife which Dick had undoubtedly purloined while getting the drink of water.

  Reversing the knife, Bob wedged the handle securely in the hole and began the tedious process of sawing through the ropes which bound his wrists. The blade was sharp and in time the strands parted. Fully ten minutes were required to restore the circulation and work some of the stiffness from his shoulder joints. After that it was an easy matter to free his feet.

  Bob removed his spurs and put them in a pocket, then set about exploring the leanto. This also was constructed of logs, with a roof of poles and sod which he might eventually work through if he had something to stand on. But the place was barren of box or barrel; barren, in fact, of everything but himself. The door was of heavy planking. There was no window.

  He considered making a noise to attract Shab, overpowering the fellow when he stepped through the doorway; but he dismissed the idea. As a last resort it might work, but any sound of a scuffle would be heard in the cabin and would bring men to Shab’s assistance.

  Bob went around the walls painstakingly, feeling for crevices which might be enlarged. That hope, too, he soon abandoned. No chance to whittle one’s way through a wall constructed of twelve-inch logs. The floor wa
s of dirt, but with Shab prowling about his effort to escape would be detected before the opening was sufficiently large. He finally turned to the door as the most vulnerable part of the leanto.

  The fastening, he judged, was a hasp and staple one, and presently his groping fingers found the end of the screws which protruded through the boards. From the location of these, he mentally traced the outline of the hasp; then, with the point of the knife, went to work.

  The progress he made was slow, for the boards were of oak and he was forced to work entirely with the point of the blade, which soon dulled. When the point was rendered useless Bob snapped an inch off the end of the blade, thus forming a new and sharper one to continue the cutting. The whole time he had to keep an ear open for the prowling Shab, ceasing work at his approach.

  It must have been well after midnight when the blade point finally penetrated the board above the hasp. Bob stopped to rest for a minute, then doggedly went to work on the bottom cut. His knife had been broken off so often that but a stub of the original twelve-inch blade remained, and he was forced to use the broken pieces, thus redoubling the labor.

  The hours passed, and Bob, realizing that dawn must be only minutes away, worked feverishly. He was working with the last inch of blade, and that was dishearteningly dull. At last he felt the point slip through the wood. And at the same moment Shab Cannon’s voice sounded at the cabin door.

  “Come on, you dudes, roll out! Doc, git that breakfast goin’.” Bob heard his heavy tread approaching the leanto. “Wake up, Lee. It won’t be long now. You hear me?”

  Bob retreated softly to the far end of the shack. “I hear you.”

  Shab returned to the cabin and entered it. Bob could hear his raucous voice berating the tardy risers.

  It was now or never. Bob put his shoulder against the door and pressed steadily, firmly. There came a low splintering sound and the door flew open. In an instant he was outside. Closing the door and hastily fitting the v-shaped piece holding the hasp into place, Bob ducked around the corner and ran silently toward the pole corral. It was still dark, only the gray in the east suggesting the dawn that was so near.