by Dean Owen
At last Englander came to the doorway. “Reckon he ain’t so bad hit, Willie. ’Less blood poison sets in. You sliced a chunk out of his side.”
“Then we can leave him for a spell,” Willie said. “Let’s go and get those cows.”
“But—”
“You heard me,” Willie said, a new ring of authority in his voice. Cigar clamped in his teeth he led the four men in the direction of the dust cloud. At Willie’s order they spread out and moved ahead cautiously. And suddenly they came upon six men, dismounted, when they made a bend in the trail taken by the driven cattle. Each man held a rifle.
Willie’s mouth opened in surprise and he dropped his cigar. And in that moment he realized that the gunshot, when he had downed Stallart, was what had alerted these men. But it was a little late for any thinking in this world for either Willie or the four Anchor men flanking him. Willie saw the jut of smoke from each rifle barrel, but he didn’t hear the crash of the weapons an instant later. The ugly wound in his forehead suffered a deeper penetration than that caused by the revolver barrel swung by Bert Stallart earlier.
CHAPTER NINE
Rim was at the roundup camp, silently cursing Willie for not getting a move on with the remuda when Ed Rule, riding bareback on one of the mules usually hitched to the chuckwagon, tore into the clearing. The men, sensing trouble, streamed up. Across the river, which was little more than a creek here, the big Sabers camp was already set up. Smoke from cookfires curved like beckoning gray fingers against cliff walls.
It took the old cook a few moments to get his breath, after he slipped from the back of the sweat-streaked mule.
“I was comin’ with the chuckwagon and I heard shooting over in the hills beyond the horse camp. I went over. Get hold of yourself, Rim.”
“I’ve got a hold, Ed,” Rim said grimly. “Is it Stallart?”
“Found him in the shack at the horse camp. Bad hit, I reckon. Anyhow he’s unconscious. Then I went out to send Charlie Daws for help and I saw buzzards wheeling about a mile off. I rode over. Willie and the four boys who was going to drive the remuda over—all dead, Rim. Every one.”
Rim felt the lash of grief. “Willie—dead—”
“Tracks of cows around, and riders, Rim. I—I don’t want to figure what happened. I leave that up to you.”
Rim looked around at the faces of his men and knew what they were thinking. This was a damn poor way for a man to die. Maybe earning twenty-five a month and his keep, with a horse furnished. And to go out and die to protect the cattle owned by his boss. And Rim knew that his premonition about more graves on the knoll behind the Anchor ranch house had been right. He cursed the black gloom that descended on him.
“Then Bert’s the only one alive,” Rim said, and marveled at the way he could control his voice in the face of crisis. But inside he was jelly. He saw the men watching him and he knew what they were thinking of him now: a cold-blooded bastard if there ever was one.
“I can’t tell how bad Bert’s been hit,” Ed Rule said. “He’s got a bandage but he’s been bleeding bad. Charlie took him to the house. I come on here.”
“Ed, you stay here and get your breath.” Rim looked around. “Five men stay with him. The rest come with me.”
They were a silent group of twenty riders moving swiftly along the wide cattle trail that led to Anchor. Here the sun was warm through the trees, and Rim could feel the warmth on his back. It was hard to realize that Willie would never feel anything again. Nor would any of the men with him. What had happened? was the thought that ripped constantly through his mind. What—in—hell—had—happened?
It took them hours to reach Anchor. As they pounded across the yard, raising a great clatter, he saw Marcy rush from the house, tears streaming from her eyes. Her hands were outstretched and Rim swung down and she came against him. “Oh, Rim—Rim—Willie dead. And Bert—”
“How is Bert? Is he conscious?”
“No. He hasn’t spoken. Oh, Rim, what does it mean?”
Gently he pushed her away. The men were dismounted, staring. Nobody said a word.
Rim swallowed as he looked around. “I made a rule about whisky during roundup. Forget it. But not too much, understand? I have a feeling we’ll do some riding tonight. Some of you go down and bring the bodies up here.”
He went into the house.
“Oh, my God, Rim,” Marcy said, her voice shaking. “This is awful. Willie missed going to war and I was so thankful his life was spared, and now—I lost three older brothers, Rim. Willie was the baby. I—” She began to laugh. She stepped away from him, head back, her eyes large flaming pools of black. Her laughter became a screech and he brought the flat of his hand against her face, knocking her aside. He sprang forward and caught her before she could fall.
“Marcy, Marcy,” he said. He gripped her arms hard. He knew he was hurting her for he saw the writhing of her lips in pain. “We can’t help Willie, but we can help Bert. Get hold of yourself.”
“Yes, we must help Bert. How can you be so calm?”
“I learned calmness, Marcy. Four years of it. For four years I walked across a volcano on a greased fence rail. I had to learn calmness. It’s something that comes with practice.”
She pressed her eyeballs with the tips of her fingers as if to drain them of tears. Then she looked at him. “Maybe Bert has recovered consciousness. Maybe he can tell us—what happened.”
They climbed the stairs and she no longer leaned on him. In that moment he thought she was the bravest woman he had ever known. Sunlight touched the landing and he thought back to the night of Ellamae’s arrival. How Marcy, coming down these stairs to greet her husband’s niece, had come to a halt, staring. Shocked by what she knew to be the truth about Ellamae and why she had come to “visit.” But Marcy had quickly recovered even as she had recovered now, or partially so, from a greater shock. The death of her last brother.
Outside the door of the bedroom she shared with Bert Stallart she halted, put a finger against her lips. “We must be quiet.”
She opened the door and they walked in. Bert Stallart had bunched his pillow behind him. There was a definite pallor on his heavy face. His hair seemed to be in a wilder tangle than usual. And the wildness was in his eyes. His gaze swung from his foreman, to his wife.
“You’re better,” Marcy cried, and started toward the bed. “You’ve regained consciousness—”
Then she came to a halt, her face losing color. Stallart had drawn a .45 from under his blanket. The cocking of the weapon was a lethal metallic sound in the quiet room.
“I was a mite under when Rule found me, I admit,” Stallart said in that labored, painful way. “But I come to mighty quick. I been layin’ up here. Thinkin’.”
“You know about Willie?” Rim said.
“I know about Willie.” Stallart bared his teeth, and the pain was a sickness in his eyes. But he managed to grin at them. There was a spot of redness along his left side under his shirt.
“We’re going to have trouble, Bert,” Rim said. “The ranch—”
“Damned right we’re goin’ to have trouble.” Stallart gestured violently with the gun when Marcy tried to go to him. She shot Rim a bewildered glance. “Willie told me all about you two,” Stallart went on.
“There’s nothing to tell, Bert,” Rim said, feeling a creeping iciness in the pit of his stomach. The cold eye of the gun Stallart held was centered on him now. The muzzle seemed big as a bear cave.
“One bullet to kill two sinful people,” Stallart said.
Rim drew in a slow breath. “That wound has made you crazy, Bert.”
“Willie told me how you two was fixin’ to see me dead.”
“No, Bert!” Marcy cried.
“I heard you laughin’ downstairs a minute ago.”
“Bert, I was hysterical,” Marcy said, trying to still the trembling of her lips.
“Everybody knows you been sneaking up here to the house when my back’s turned.”
“No, Bert. Somebody’s planted these ideas in your head.”
“Willie told me right out. He said if I was dead you two would marry up.”
“Willie’s the one dead, Bert. Willie and Englander. And—” Rim named the other three men.
Stallart stared at him. “Get Willie up here. Let him deny he told me that.”
“I’ve told you. Willie’s dead.”
“You’re a liar.” There was truly a touch of madness in the eyes now as his fingers tightened on the gun.
Rim suddenly sprang forward, launching himself at Marcy, and at the same time the bed. His hip struck Marcy, sent her flying. Stallart fired. The room rocked from the concussion of the exploding gun and Rim, as he dove for the bed, prayed to God the bullet wouldn’t strike Marcy. He hit the floor heavily. Another shot screamed in an unholy voice of ricochet. Rim’s shoulders were under the edge of the bed. He heaved up, tipping the bed. Stallart struck the wall with the crown of his head. He went limp.
Shakily Rim picked himself up, stared at his unconscious partner. He got Stallart’s gun. He turned and saw Marcy crumpled on the floor, and for one terrible moment he thought one of the wildly fired bullets had struck its mark. Then she put out her hand and he helped her up.
She stood with head bowed, and he saw a tear make a bright star against the toe of her shoe.
“He didn’t mean it, Marcy,” Rim tried to say.
“He meant it.”
Rim righted the bed as some of the men came pounding up the stairs, drawn by the shots. Rim went over and opened the door. “It’s all right, boys. The boss is out of his head. I had to take a gun away from him.”
Rim felt the men look at him, saw their eyes shift to the weeping Marcy. Then they looked at the great shaggy Bert Stallart lying twisted up in a gray blanket. A few of them exchanged glances and Rim knew what they were thinking. But he felt that to deny anything now would only make it worse.
“Help me with him, some of you,” Rim ordered. And when the unconscious Stallart was back in the bed Rim got some strips of rawhide and tied each of Stallart’s wrists to a rail of the bed. He told the men to wait for him in the yard.
He put a hand on Marcy’s trembling shoulder. “Don’t untie him, no matter what he says. Not until I get back.”
He started for the door and she caught his sleeve. “Rim, what are you going to do?”
“You can guess.”
“Rim, please use the law. Don’t do it yourself. See the sheriff.”
“The sheriff is on Ward’s side of the fence.”
“Give him a chance to prove it then. Please, Rim, for me.”
“All right,” he reluctantly agreed. Rim went out. He told five men to stay here to guard the place. He looked toward the shed beyond the bunkhouse where the bodies of Willie Temple and the others had been taken. First Rim intended to ride to the scene of the massacre. Even though it was now dark he might be able to see some sign. He brought along a bulls-eye lantern. The men rode quietly. There was the sawing of leathers, the faint metallic chiming of bit chains. A horse neighed.
One of the men kept rubbing the palm of his hand along the butt of his booted rifle. “Willie was a loudmouth. But I reckon he wasn’t so bad.”
“Yeah,” Rim said heavily. “You like a man or not, if he’s on your side of the fence and he’s killed, you go looking for those who did it.”
“Rim, you reckon it was Eric Ward’s doings?”
“Who else?” Rim looked around at the dark file of riders behind him. “We may have some hanging to do if the sheriff gives us trouble. If we do, we’ll use a double rope on Jellick. I don’t want him coming down once we’ve got him swinging.”
“How about usin’ a twisted copper wire? I heard of ’em hangin’ a fella that way over to Tascosa. They caught him with another fella’s wife. Powerful sad way to die, so they tell me.”
Rim looked around at the man who had spoken, trying to gauge the statement. But he decided, after a moment, that the rider had meant no reference to himself and Marcy Stallart.
As he faced around again, the night wind in his face, he wondered if he was a fool to play the game Marcy’s way. Every instinct told him to go after Ward and Jellick. But he knew that other men would die if he did. Did he owe it to his crew to try and protect their lives? Or was there any protecting from men like Ward and Jellick? Could an inept sheriff keep the rangeland from being raked by gunfire?
Well, he had promised Marcy. He would try it her way. But only up to a point. Personally he felt that in the end it would be a gun in his own hand that would settle the thing. If it was ever to be settled.
Later, they looked down on the lights of LaVentana.
CHAPTER TEN
Sheriff Jared Dort was just unloading a tub of clay he had dug along the river when he heard the riders. He was at a shed behind the jail where he kept some of his tools. The moon was very bright above the Mogollon Rim in the distance. The sheriff had a lantern set on the ground at the tailgate of his wagon. He staggered into the shed with the heavy tub, set it down and wiped his brow. When he came out he saw that there was a large body of horsemen in front of the jail. And so large a body of men as this, hours after supper time, had attracted a curious crowd of townspeople. The sheriff could hear voices, shouted questions. But none of the riders seemed in a mood for answering.
Straightening his back from the strain of carrying the tub, the sheriff went around to the front of the jail.
“From the looks of this,” Sheriff Dort said to the assemblage, “you’d think President Grant was down at the hotel passing out cigars. What’s it all about?” Then he recognized Rim Bolden. Sheriff Dort said sarcastically, “Don’t tell me you’ve found the tracks of a big man and a big horse again.” He looked around at the others, expecting someone to join in his short laughter. Nobody did.
Rim Bolden said, “We’ve got five dead men out at Anchor, and one wounded.”
Sheriff Dort had been rubbing a forefinger where a slat of the tub had pinched it. Now he slowly dropped his hands to his sides. “A shooting? What about?”
“Rustled cows. My boys went after them. From the looks of it they rode into an ambush.”
This talk of five dead men was like a dash of ice water in the face. “Any idea who did it?” Dort asked.
“There were six men.” Rim leaned over the horn, peering down at the sheriff. “One of them was big and rode a big horse. But I already told you that. Not that it’ll do any good.”
“I can do without your insolent tongue,” Sheriff Jared Dort snapped. He felt his stomach coiling with tension. He wished he’d taken time to go over to the hotel and eat his evening meal before going to the river for that tub of clay. Excitement on an empty stomach gave him a sickness, and he imagined he could taste his liver. “You say there was one wounded?”
“Bert Stallart.”
“What does he say about it?”
The sheriff noticed that Rim hesitated for a moment before saying, “Stallart’s pretty badly shot up. He hasn’t said much.”
Dort regarded this Texan in the darkness. And he could think of other Texans, drunks, wearing their dirty gray uniforms, catching a kid. Roughing this kid up. This kid who had escaped from a Union stockade, wearing a suit of stolen clothing. A kid who told these crazy drunk Texans that he was South like they were. That he was trying to get back to his own outfit. And these goddam Texans, like this Rim Bolden here; they took that kid and they put a rope around his neck and tied the other end of the rope around a tie on a railroad trestle. And then two of them got the kid, each by an arm. They dangled him, hooting. And finally they let him fall. A woman in a farm adjoining the railroad track saw it all. She told Dort about it after the war was all done.
Sheriff Dort tried to figh
t down the animosity he felt for this man. After all, a sheriff was supposed to be impartial. Just because a man had come here from Texas was no sign he should be treated any different than anyone else. At least Dort tried to tell himself this, but without much conviction.
“You reckon Stallart will be able to talk by mornin’?” Dort asked.
“You don’t have to talk to Stallart,” Rim Bolden said. “You can ride out with me and see the sign. You can follow the sign left by the rustlers and the beef they stole. I suppose you have an idea where the tracks lead.”
The sarcasm in Bolden’s voice threatened to remove the checkrein from the sheriff’s temper. “You tell me where the tracks lead,” he said, and wished in that moment he’d kept his mouth shut.
“To Eric Ward’s T,” Rim Bolden said. There was a sudden quiet along the street. The mounts of the riders shifted their feet, neighed.
Rim Bolden said to the sheriff, “Are you riding out with us to see Ward? Or do we go alone?”
The sheriff stopped, picked up a stick, broke it in two. It made a snapping sound. He closed his eyes. It was the way the woman said his brother’s neck had sounded when he was dropped off the trestle.
“I’m the law here,” Dort said. “I’ll investigate. You Anchor men get on home.”
“How long will this—investigation—take?”
“You’ll hear from me. I’ll ride out to see you after I’ve talked with Ward.” The sheriff started away, then looked around. “I’ll be interested in hearing what Bert Stallart has to say about all this.”
Rim Bolden sat his saddle, a big shadow, peering down at Dort. He said nothing for a moment, then, “All right, boys. We’ll let the sheriff handle it his way. For now.”
