by Dean Owen
The Anchor men rode away into the darkness. Dort stood looking after them, thoughtfully rubbing his jaw. Making up his mind quickly Dort locked his shed, got his horse and rode in the direction of T.
Later, as he climbed the steep trail to Ward’s yard, he was challenged. He identified himself and a man with a rifle told him to go ahead. As Dort rode past the guard he recognized the man as Tut Tyler, who used to work for Anchor.
At last he was in the yard of Eric Ward’s sorry-looking outfit. It wasn’t much better as a headquarters than the place Bert Stallart used as a horse camp.
The house door opened, thrust a fan of light into the yard. Ward said, “Who is it?”
“Me,” Dort said, and dismounted.
“Come in, come in. Since when did you take to riding the night trails?”
Dort stomped dust off his boots and entered the house. At that moment another rider came into the yard and Sheriff Dort looked back over his shoulder. He saw the towering Meade Jellick slip from the saddle and enter the house.
Dort said, “Hi, Meade.” He rubbed his hands together. “A little whisky and water might settle my stomach, Eric.”
“Sure.” Ward had been regarding him strangely. Now he went to a shelf and took down a bottle and some glasses. Ward filled three shot glasses. Jellick ambled over to the table. He picked up his glass in a big fist and downed the drink. The sheriff helped himself to a tin cup, poured the whisky into it then put in some water from a canteen hanging from a nail. He took a generous drink and the warmth seemed to uncoil the ugly tension in his stomach.
“Boys, I accepted your version of Simpson’s death the other day,” Sheriff Dort said. “That it was probably just a ruckus between two cowhands over a woman, maybe.”
“I know you did,” Ward said. His handsome face looked puzzled. He wore a new wool shirt, dark wool pants and half boots. “Has there been more trouble?” and his gaze slipped to Jellick, then back to the sheriff.
“Five men dead, one wounded. Anchor men.”
Ward whistled softly. “Trouble between Stallart and Rim Bolden?”
Dort lowered his cup. “Why should there be trouble between those partners?” he asked slowly.
“Mrs. Stallart is a good-lookin’ female,” Jellick put in.
It took Dort a moment to mull this over. He decided to take a middle course. “I’ll admit Bolden didn’t seem to be telling a straight story when he brought Stallart’s name into it. I got the feeling he was hiding something.”
“Obvious. In country like this nobody likes to admit he’s after another man’s wife.” And Ward added hastily, “Not that there’s any reciprocation on Mrs. Stallart’s part. Of that I am certain.”
Dort finished his whisky, wondering just why Ward was so sure this was a fact. “Eric, you and me are doing a little business together. Nothing illegal from my point of view.” Then he added, “Even so, I can’t take sides.”
“We stand to make a little money.”
“I hate Rim Bolden’s guts, but—”
“I’ve sensed that.” Ward seemed to be waiting for him to explain this hatred, but the sheriff couldn’t bring himself to do this. Just thinking about that kid the dirty bastardly Texans had accused of being a spy had drained him for one night.
Dort gave Ward a searching look. “I’d like to believe that this shooting was on account of Stallart and Bolden busting caps over Mrs. Stallart. And maybe dragging some of the Anchor hands into it. But I got to be sure, Eric.”
Eric Ward was sitting on the edge of the heavy plank table. “Meade, have you had any trouble with the Anchor crowd?”
Jellick licked at the palm of his hand, held it over the chimney of the lamp on the table. He withdrew it quickly and studied the redness there on the palm. “I ain’t had a chance to tell you, Eric. But some of the Anchor boys jumped us.” He gave the details.
Sheriff Dort saw that Ward seemed surprised to learn this. Dort felt his own face slowly freeze as he faced Jellick. “Rim Bolden claims he was hit by rustlers.”
“Bolden is a liar,” Jellick said.
“Then you weren’t driving Anchor cows?”
“Sure we was,” Jellick said with a shrug of his tough shoulders.
Eric Ward slammed a fist on the table knocking the sheriff’s cup to the floor. It struck with a clatter and rolled under the table. “Goddam it, Meade, why didn’t you tell me about this?”
“I just got here for one thing. Took time to get them cows settled down. Besides, I didn’t know how many Anchor men was down. They jumped us. We started shootin’ and got out fast.”
“What were you doing with Anchor cows?” Sheriff Dort demanded coldly.
“Bought ’em.” Jellick gave a tight grin. He took a paper from his pocket and handed it to the sheriff.
Dort could not conceal his surprise. It was truly a bill-of-sale for two hundred head of Anchor beef. It was dated this day and signed by Bert Stallart. Frowning, he put the paper on the table. He was wondering why Rim Bolden’s name as partner wasn’t on that document. But, he reasoned, Bolden only had a small interest in Anchor. He supposed Bert Stallart could do just about as he pleased.
“Obviously Stallart and Bolden are trying to cover up a jealous fight,” Ward said, “by blaming me.”
“But Jellick said they jumped him. Why?”
“Ask Stallart,” Jellick said.
“I aim to,” Sheriff Dort said. He rubbed his jaw. There was clay under his fingernails. He picked some of it out. It was a long minute before he spoke. “I got my personal likes and dislikes in this country, Eric. But after all I’m the sheriff. I wangled a beef contract for you from my brother and—”
“And you get a cut of it.”
“That’s all right so far as it goes. But I want to warn you boys. I’ll come after you quick as I will after Bolden or Stallart if I got to.”
Ward’s eyes held a faint edge of anger. “That’s a pretty thin speech. I think if it came to a showdown my word would have a little more weight when it came to keeping you in office. More weight than Anchor’s, for instance.”
And Dort, thinking it over, had to admit this was probably true. Even though Ward had only been in this area a comparatively short time he was well-liked.
“One thing I can’t figure,” Sheriff Dort said. “Just why would Bert Stallart be sellin’ you beef now?”
“Some money he owed me,” Ward said easily.
“For how long?” Dort wanted to know.
Ward glanced at Jellick, then said to the sheriff, “He’s owed the money since he lived in Kansas.”
“Funny, but you never said anything before about knowing him in Kansas.”
“I didn’t think it was important.” Ward let a smile flicker across his Ups. “I get along with Stallart fine. It’s his partner who balks at Stallart paying his just debts.”
Sheriff Dort looked thoughtful. “Well, like you already know, I got no feelin’ for Rim Bolden. But—” He cleared his throat. “How come Stallart pays you in beef now? Why not after roundup?”
“I asked for payment now. I don’t have enough cattle in my own brand to warrant holding a roundup. I want to start building a herd and I feel that Stallart might as well start paying me off now instead of later.”
“You mean he owes you more than two hundred head?” The sheriff said, shaking his head.
“It was a sizeable debt.” Ward spread his hands. “Let’s not worry about that. All we want is some beef to trail to Fort Slaughter.”
“Yeah, reckon.”
Ward said, “You’d better spend the night here. It’s a long ride back to town.”
“I got some thinkin’ to do, Eric. My brain works better when I’m to home.”
* * * *
When the sheriff had ridden down the slope on the town road Ward turned on Jellick. “Might be a good idea,
from here on out, if you let me know just what in hell is going on.”
“I just saw me a chance to cut down the opposition a little. I took it.”
“But Mrs. Stallart’s brother. My God, that’s going to hit her hard.”
“I done you a good turn, Eric,” Jellick said. “The kid favored Rim Bolden for a brother-in-law. He said it often enough.”
“I just wish it would have been possible to leave Marcy Stallart out of it altogether.”
“You told me yourself we got our ropes on a prime bit of money here. Why get our wagon mired down in the gumbo over some female? You’ll get her, sooner or later.”
“You’re damned quick to shoot off that gun of yours,” Ward snapped. “But I notice you haven’t done anything about Rim Bolden yet.”
“I will.”
“It better be soon. We don’t have to worry about Bert Stallart giving us trouble with our estimable Sheriff. But we’ve got a little worrying to do on the subject where Rim Bolden is concerned.”
“The sheriff hates Bolden. He made it plain enough tonight.”
“We can’t bank our lives on that fact,” Ward said. “Maybe Dort isn’t much of a sheriff. But one thing I’ve learned about him. He has a conscience.”
“Maybe we’d have been better to steer clear of Dort altogether.”
“Probably. I thought he was hungry for some round Yankee dollars. But apparently not hungry enough to look the other way. We’ll have to play it carefully from here on out.”
“A little late, Eric,” Jellick said. “When Bolden finds out the sheriff won’t move in on us, he’ll do it himself. There’ll be some dead men around these parts.”
“Yes, damn it.”
“Well, it’s what you wanted, ain’t it?” Jellick demanded peevishly. “You wanted Bolden dead. When he comes pilin’ up that trail with his men that’s just how he’ll be. Dead.”
Jellick went outside and Ward poured himself a drink. Maybe he should send for April now. Have her come out and become acquainted with Marcy Stallart. Ward felt that his sister could pave the way for him with Marcy Stallart. April was a lady, that much was for certain. Her schooling had cost him enough.
He fell to thinking about the dark-eyed Marcy. He hoped fervently that when Rim Bolden was in his grave she wouldn’t blame him, Could the entire blame for this bloody business be placed squarely on Meade Jellick’s heavy shoulders? He closed his eyes and pictured himself paying a call on the bereaved Widow Stallart. Ward would tell her how much he regretted that her husband, Bert Stallart, was dead. But maybe it was better this way, he would say. Better for a man to be dead of a bullet, than by a hang rope—
And he would say, “I wanted to do this peacefully, Mrs. Stallart. It was Meade Jellick who went crazy and killed your husband and Rim Bolden. I don’t believe in vengeance ordinarily, but I took care of Jellick myself. And with the sheriff’s approval.” He pictured Marcy Stallart’s dark eyes filling with tears. She would give him her warm hand to shake after this first meeting. On the second visit he would escort her into the country in a rented buggy. He knew about these warm-blooded Southern women. She wouldn’t be too long in widowhood before feeling the need of a man. Eric Ward promised himself that he alone would be available when this happened.
Jellick came in, the floor shaking under his weight. “You got a smile on your face. You got something figured out?”
“Yes. A good long life—for the two of us.”
It wasn’t often, Ward thought that night after he had gone to bed, that a man had a chance to acquire a ranch the size of Anchor. Or a woman as handsome as Marcy Stallart.
All the bad years of the war and those that followed could be forgotten if only he could succeed in this one thing. All the years of planning, of striving, of disappointments.
It had been the luckiest day of his life when he met up with a drifter named Meade Jellick, and one night heard the story of Bert Stallart. At last Ward knew what to do with the small stake he had acquired with his own brand of playing cards, coupled with his ability to out-shoot most men. He came to New Mexico and bought a broken-down ranch.
From his own bunk across the dark room, Meade Jellick said, “I’m gettin’ a little edgy. Let’s finish it up quick. Why drag it out at two hundred head of beef at a time?”
Ward pretended he was asleep—.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The first visitor the next morning at Anchor was Doc Snider, who had returned from his semi-annual visit to Mesilla. It was no secret that he had a periodic fondness for quantities of frijoles, chili rellenos, chile verde, good bourbon whisky and the charms of a woman named Sanchez. This morning he made an elegant figure as he wheeled his buggy into the yard, tossed the reins to one of the men who tied his team. Doc Snider was a tall, angular man with a carefully trimmed graying mustache and goatee. His hand was damp and shook slightly as he offered it to Rim.
“Hear you have a patient out here,” Doc Snider said.
“Bert Stallart.” Rim led him to the house. “The cook made fresh tortillas this morning and there’s a pot of frijoles on the stove—”
Doc Snider looked horrified. “God, no. Not that again. Not until September, at least. I’ve had my fill of—everything.” He gave Rim a sly grin. “A man’s weaknesses—Oh, well—What seems to be the trouble with our friend Stallart?”
“Gunshot wound. But not serious.”
“Oh, yes, so the sheriff said. I’ve had a feeling about things in general around here. I guess that’s why I took my trip to Mesilla earlier than usual this year. Has this shooting got something to do with Ward moving in as a neighbor?” And when Rim shrugged the doctor went on, “Just seemed odd that a man would set up a brand that was so easy to change from an Anchor. Almost as if he wanted to be accused of rustling. Everybody was surprised Stallart let him get away with it.” Doc Snider’s sharp blue eyes, a little bloodshot yet, studied Rim’s dark face. “Or that you’d let Ward get away with it. Seeing that you’re a partner in Anchor.”
“I was on the range a lot when Ward moved in. I didn’t know about it till he was already set.”
They went into the kitchen and Rim asked the Mexican cook to fix steak and eggs for Doc.
“I hear Stallart’s niece bore a son,” Doc said. “Stallart had plans for the boy.”
“Yes. Did you hear that in town?”
“His niece told me herself,” Doc Snider admitted. “She’s pretty bitter. Says Stallart kicked her out, you might say. She’d have gone away penniless if it hadn’t been for some money Marcy gave her.”
“It was a shock to Bert, all right. Having Ellamae arrive here about ready to drop her child.”
Doc Snider spooned coarse brown sugar into his coffee. “When will humans stop making such a to-do about wedlock? Why not honor the institution of birth, no matter what the circumstances?”
“That’s a long time in coming. If ever.”
Rim leaned forward, telling Doc about the ugly rumors. How Stallart was tied in his bed upstairs.
“Sort of puts you in an awkward position, Rim. Being Bert’s partner.”
“After roundup I’m taking enough beef to cover my investment here and pulling out.”
“I hope after roundup isn’t too late. Maybe a smart man would leave now.”
“Doc, you’ve got to understand something. I came out of the war with nothing but a broken-down Texas horse ranch. I spent a year rounding up my horses and breaking them. I managed to sell most of them as cavalry mounts at Fort Winthrop. I came up here with three thousand dollars. Stallart needed help because he was about finished here at Anchor. I liked him. I bought in.” Rim started at his steaming cup of coffee before him on the table. “I’m within spitting distance of my thirtieth birthday. It’s a little late for a man to start over. I can’t just turn my back on everything.”
“Funny how a man will put such
a cheap value on his very life.”
“Three thousand dollars or three hundred. It makes no difference, Doc. I’ve got a right to be here. Until I can clear out on my own terms I’m going to stay.”
“You’re a good man, Rim. If we’d had more like you on our side Lee might have been the dominant figure at Appomattox Courthouse.”
“It was starvation that whipped us, not a lack of guts,” Rim said fervently. “But I don’t want to talk about the war. It’s why I came up here. I thought there’d be a mixture here of North and South.”
“There is.”
“I wanted to live among my neighbors and forget that four year madness,” Rim said.
Doc finished his coffee and the Mexican cook placed before him a platter of fried beef and eggs. He ate ravenously, pausing now and then with fork in the air to express an opinion. One of them concerned Ellamae’s visit to him in LaVentana.
“I just got in last night and the first visitor I had was this girl. She accused me of being an old drunk. She said if I hadn’t been in Mesilla her baby could have been saved. That I doubt, if the facts she related are correct. That baby was born with a face cold and blue as a winter sky. He had no chance whatsoever.” Doc gave a weary shake of his gray head. “Of course the part about me being an old drunk is partially true. I guess every man living has some cross to bear. The weight of mine only becomes intolerable during those two periods of the year. But of course, I couldn’t explain that to Ellamae Stallart.”
“She should get out of New Mexico. Forget her bitterness toward Stallart.”
“But she won’t.”
Doc looked around. “Where is Marcy this morning?”
“I imagine she’s alone with her grief.”
“Because Bert got himself shot?”
Rim looked at him. “You don’t know about the rest of it?”
“Sheriff Dort said Bert was shot and to get out here first thing. For God’s sake, don’t tell me it’s even worse than I supposed. And me sitting here—”
Rim told him about Willie and the four Anchor hands lying dead in the shed beyond the bunkhouse.
