The 8th Western Novel

by Dean Owen

  “You don’t have any broken ribs,” she said, blushing a little.

  He turned his head again. He saw he was stretched out and his head was in the girl’s lap. The crowd had gone.

  The girl said, “I never saw such a fight. It was terrible. And I never saw a man with such strength as yours.” Then the girl looked away and said, “Here she comes with the water.”

  Rim got to his feet and the girl followed him up, looking worried. She steadied him with a hand on his arm. Rim saw Ellamae Stallart coming from the creek with a pan of water.

  “I found your gun,” Ellamae said, and jerked her head toward the buggy. “I put it in the seat.”

  Rim limped over and found his revolver. He put it into his waistband. On the floorboards he saw a frying pan and some bread and steaks wrapped in newspaper.

  “Looks like I ruined your picnic,” Rim said tiredly.

  Ellamae shrugged. “You better get out of the country, Rim.”

  He looked down at his bloodied clothing, the shirt half-torn from his torso, the knee ripped from his pants. He put his gaze on Ellamae. It hurt him to talk. “You started right at the bottom, with this new life of yours,” he said. “With a man like Jellick.”

  Before Ellamae could say anything the other girl came up. She was not tall, yet she had the appearance of height. There was dust on the back of her dress where she had sat on the ground, cradling his head. She dipped a small lace handkerchief into the pan of water Ellamae was holding. Standing on tiptoe the girl gently bathed his face.

  Rim said, “Sight of me must turn your stomach.”

  She shook her head and he could see the fiery red lights in it. “I lived in Missouri during the war. Many a night I held a lantern for my mother while she tended the wounded on our side.”

  “And which was your side?”

  “The North, of course.” She squeezed water from the handkerchief, washed it again. Water in the pan turned a muddy brown.

  Rim felt the ache in his back start up again. It was a wonder Jellick’s hand ax hadn’t ruined his spine.

  They staggered over to their horses and were heading for LaVentana when Doc Snider arrived in his buggy. The doctor, with his long gray hair, mustache and goatee, didn’t look quite so grand today. He seemed harassed. He gave Rim a long look, grunted something, then began to give him a superficial patching up. The two girls looked on.

  When he had finished Rim said, “You act like you wished Jellick had finished me.”

  “I warned you to get out, Rim. For your own sake. You didn’t see fit to take my advice.”

  “How’s Jellick? Crippled up, I hope.”

  “You couldn’t kill him with a hayfork. He’ll be up and around by tomorrow. If I know his type he’ll come after you with a gun.” The doctor closed his black bag. He looked at the redhead, then said quietly to Ellamae, “Who’s she?”

  Ellamae said, “She was on the stage. She got off to watch the fight.” Ellamae had hitched up her team to the buggy. The girl in the green dress walked over and asked her for a lift to town.

  But Rim put in quickly, “I wouldn’t do that, miss. Ride with Doc Snider instead.”

  The girl gave Rim a puzzled look, then studied Ellamae closer. Ellamae said, laughing, “You be seen riding into town with me and you’ll have no reputation.”

  The girl turned crimson. Doc said, “You seem almighty proud of what you’ve made of yourself, Ellamae.”

  Ellamae climbed into her buggy. “Uncle Bert made me this way.” She looked around at Rim. “You thank him for it.”

  She drove off, dust whipping around the buggy wheels. There was a strange, embarrassed silence.

  Doc Snider seemed thoughtful. “If I were you, Rim, I’d get some rest for a day or so. You’ve been very lucky so far.”

  “Roundup’s no time for a foreman to rest.” Rim helped the redhead into Doc Snider’s buggy. “Thanks for giving me the moral support,” he said. “One look at you and I was very glad to still be alive.”

  “You seemed so—so helpless. I just had to do what I could for you.”

  “You’ll be staying in LaVentana?” Rim asked.

  “For several weeks, at least. You probably know my brother. Eric Ward. My name is April.”

  Rim met Doc Snider’s gaze, looked away. “Send me a bill for the patching job, Doc. Good-by, Miss Ward.”

  Rim climbed stiffly into the saddle, wondering if ever again he would be a whole man. As he rode away he thought of his luck this day. Good luck in being able to whip Jellick. Bad luck in finding that a girl who interested him greatly was the sister of his enemy.

  He was only able to ride for a mile before exhaustion claimed him. Unsaddling his horse, he hobbled it then, gun in hand, lay down in the brush. When he awoke it was dark.

  He rode for Anchor Bar, taking his time because each step of the horse jolted every inch of his battered frame. When he finally got home, Rim went to his quarters and lay down on his cot. Presently Ed Rule came with a quart of whisky. Rim drank half of it while the old cook sat in a chair, watching him.

  At last Rule said, “How does Jellick look?”

  “Worse than I do,” Rim said.

  “There ain’t no doubt about it now, Rim. You’ll have to kill him. He’ll be worse’n a trap-caught puma with young’uns.” When Rim said nothing, Ed Rule went on, “And before this bloody business is over you’ll have to kill Eric Ward.”

  “Ed, this is one hell of a world,” Rim said tiredly, thinking of the redheaded April Ward.

  “It ain’t the world, Rim. It’s just us bastards on it.”

  Half-drunk on the whisky Ed Rule had brought, Rim at last fell asleep. In the morning he was so stiff and sore he could hardly get out of bed.

  Because of the condition of his face Rim did not shave. It was a silent crew that finally arrived at roundup camp on the West Fork of the Gila River, Rim in the lead.

  Across the river the Sabers crew was already hard at work. There was hanging in the air, the odor of burned hide. Rim heard the familiar squeals of calves, the hoot of bulls, the hoarse protests of cows momentarily deprived of offspring. Dust rose from the camp and there were the shouts of the men, the slam of half a ton of beef against the hard earth. Branding irons glowed as Rim rode over. The men working the branding fires turned their sweating faces in his direction. They stared.

  And Rim knew that he was a sight. One side of his face was swollen, his right eye nearly closed. There was a deep cut above the left eye and he felt as if every tooth had been jarred loose by Jellick’s fists.

  He drew rein, momentarily contemplating the feverish excitement of the camp. He thought of the days when he would have found himself enjoying this frenetic but integral part of the beef business.

  Ray Burroughs, owner of Sabers, got up from where he was “sanding the hide” of a brander for burning too deeply with an iron on the flank of a calf. He came over, a big man in stained clothing who walked with a limp.

  He offered his hand when Rim swung down. “I heard about the fight,” he said. “Also about the shooting. How did Mrs. Stallart take it about her brother?”

  “Not easy,” Rim said, and noticing the rancher seemed faintly embarrassed, went on, “What else have you heard, Ray?”

  “The rest of it.” Ray Burroughs turned, spat tobacco juice into the nearest branding fire, watched one of his men, rope spinning, bring down a big steer with a shattering crash.

  Rim pushed a hand against his aching face. “Ray, we’re a little late getting started on roundup, but we’re ready now. You want to pair up, your boys with mine and we’ll make a gather and—”

  “Rim, if we have a ruckus here it’s liable to set the herd to running. A man could lose his winter wages in the tallow they’ll run off.”

  “Naturally I can’t guarantee there won’t be trouble,” Rim said stiffly. “Maybe w
e’d better have separate camps.”

  Burroughs explored a corner of his mouth with a juicy morsel of tobacco. “You see, if Anchor and Eric Ward tangle over that shooting. Or if you and Stallart tangle over Mrs. Stallart—Damn it, Rim, a man runs risk enough in this country without tryin’ to walk barefoot through a rattlesnake cave.”

  Rim took his men back across the river. He felt let down. He knew Burroughs only used a possible stampede as an excuse. Burroughs wanted to stay neutral in any violence that might be shaping up.

  He told Ed Rule to set up the chuck wagon a good mile from Sabers. “Wouldn’t do to have them breathe the same air,” Rim said bitterly. But he really couldn’t blame the Sabers owner for wanting to stay out of it.

  By noon of the following day they had over a hundred head of Anchor Bar calves licking their fresh and itching brands. The herd grew in size at the holding grounds. Rim took several rides into the hills, with some of his men, looking for sign of Ward or Jellick. But all he saw were Sabers men who gave him a wide berth, probably on orders from Burroughs.

  It was just as well that neither Ward nor Jellick apparently were coming to him. As soon as he felt roundup was progressing satisfactorily, he would pay them a visit. There was so much to settle. He had never found it easy to kill a man, even in the war. With Jellick it was another matter. But Eric Ward now presented a problem. Because whenever Rim thought of Ward these days he couldn’t help but see the redheaded April in his mind’s eye.

  But sister or not, it was a thing that had to be done. By what he had done personally, and by turning loose a man like Jellick in this country Ward had forfeited all right to live.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  On this morning Bert Stallart found his superficial flesh wound did not stiffen up as much. He could get around a little better. Doc Snider had patched up one wound, but there was nothing that could ease the pain of the other, deeper wound that was festering inside his body.

  He stood in the big empty yard, rubbing the marks on his wrists made by the thongs Rim had used on him. Stallart had tried mightily to free himself from the bed and the narrow strips of leather had cut into his flesh. The places on his wrists still had not healed.

  There were three men, “pensioners,” left at the place to look after things while roundup was in progress. Each man, at Rim’s order now wore a loaded revolver and had a rifle near enough to grab if strangers showed up.

  Stallart had one of the men saddle a horse. Then, without a backward glance at his wife, who stood watching him from a window, he rode out.

  He was thinking of the advice Sheriff Jared Dort had given him. Most times he didn’t think Dort had brains enough to make chalk marks on a black hat. But he guessed this time Dort knew what he was talking about.

  Stallart went on down the trail, this mild spring morning, past the horse camp where he had heard Willie make his brag about Marcy and Rim Bolden getting married—in the event Marcy became a widow. And from the way Willie had talked, this seemed to be a mere formality. Ever since he had married Marcy two years ago he had been irritated by Willie. But in the throes of the honeymoon atmosphere that prevailed at Anchor Bar for some weeks following the ceremony, he had insisted Willie come to live with them. “Won’t do for Bert Stallart’s brother-in-law to be cleanin’ stalls at the livery.”

  He made Willie segundo, but in the space of a few days it became apparent that the younger man’s talents, if any, lay elsewhere.

  He was wondering what to do about getting a foreman when Rim Bolden came up the trail from Texas. Anchor Bar was too big for one man to run alone and Stallart could not have any confidence in Willie as a helper. Yet he didn’t feel like replacing him as segundo. Even though Marcy agreed that Willie had weaknesses, still it would hurt her. So he put up with her brother.

  And it was then he heard that there was a stranger in LaVentana with some fresh money, who wanted to buy the small Waterman place over east. Stallart lost no time in contacting Rim Bolden. A man could do better with his money, Stallart said, by investing in a ranch the size of Anchor Bar.

  The two men seemed to hit it off and Stallart said it made no mind to him that Rim had been captain in the West Texas Volunteers.

  That night Rim rode out with Stallart to Anchor Bar. And now Stallart, on this bright spring day was remembering how Marcy had put out her hand when Rim was introduced. How they looked at each other and Marcy, flushing a little, said, “You’ll have to forgive me, Bert. But seeing somebody from home—and Texas does seem almost next door—” She turned quickly away and wiped her eyes.

  “My wife was born and raised in Natchez, Mr. Bolden,” Stallart had explained. “They come up this way and she lost her folks at Paso Del Norte. They got their drinkin’ water out of the wrong well. And this is my brother-in-law Willie.”

  Willie squared his shoulders. “Sure a pleasure, Captain Bolden, suh. Wish I could have had the honor of fighting under you.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t have enjoyed it much, son.”

  “Son?” Willie had exclaimed. “I’m almost twenty.”

  Marcy helped in the kitchen that night to make the meal a memorable one. She was gay and laughed a lot during supper. And Bert Stallart remembered how he had felt left out of it. Most of the people they talked about he had never even heard of.

  Thinking about Marcy and Rim Bolden made the blood run hot through his veins. He drew rein where the bodies of Willie and the other Anchor Bar men had been found. There were dark stains on the ground and rifle shells gleaming in the sun. He followed the tracks made by the two hundred head of beef until at last he came to Ward’s headquarters.

  When he saw Ward and Jellick come out of the house to see who approached, there was one shattered part of a second when he considered drawing his gun and killing them while he had the chance. But he knew he wasn’t fast enough for one thing; and his left side had stiffened up during the ride. Besides, there might be some of Ward’s men lurking in the long shed-like structure across the yard that was used as a bunkhouse.

  “You favor the sheriff’s suggestion?” Ward said.

  Stallart sat his saddle, looking at the towering Meade Jellick, seeing the cuts on the face, the misshapen nose, the eyes slitted purple. Stallart had heard about the historic battle from Ed Rule. But he didn’t believe it when Rule said Rim had whipped the bigger man. He believed it now and he felt a grudging admiration for Rim.

  He wished now he’d had the guts to hang Jellick with his own rope when the man first arrived at Anchor. It would have saved so much trouble. But had he done that he might never have found out about Rim and Marcy—“You ready to ride to town?” Stallart said.

  Ward nodded. Then he said, “By the way, this transaction we’re discussing today has nothing to do with our other business. Our Kansas business.”

  Stallart felt a muscle twitch at a corner of his mouth. “Maybe I’m getting tired of running.”

  “That could be,” Ward agreed. “I don’t blame you. A man doesn’t like to be pushed too far. A man also doesn’t relish the prospect of an ignominious awful death. A public hanging.”

  Stallart looked away toward the towering Mogollon Rim and he thought, Even the goddam mountains remind me of him. Mogollon Rim. Rim Bolden.

  Jellick said, “What you figure to do about gettin’ yourself a new foreman?”

  Stallart hung the dipper back on a nail. “I don’t give much of a damn what happens to Rim Bolden.”

  “Wouldn’t make no difference if you did care. The man that lays a hand on me is the man that dies quick.”

  They rode to town, the three of them, Jellick beside Stallart, Ward in the lead. They followed the wagon road for a mile, then cut into the hills.

  “About the other day,” Stallart said. “How did my men happen to get shot?”

  “They opened up,” Jellick said. “I’d have showed ’em the bill-of-sale for them cow
s. But we never had no chance. They throwed a powerful lot of lead before we cut ’em down.”

  “Any of your boys get hit?”

  “We were just lucky, I guess.”

  Ward, looking back over his shoulder, frowned. He drew rein and let them get ahead of him. For the rest of the way to town Ward rode with Stallart in front of him.

  At the bank next to the Mountain Store, Eric Ward drew three thousand dollars in gold from his account. Sheriff Jared Dort had seen the trio ride in and now he hurried over to the bank in time to be a witness to the transaction. Meade Jellick, a sly look in the purplish, slitted eyes, went out the back door of the bank and cut for the alley behind the Jewel Saloon.

  Sheriff Dort, noticing this, wiped the moist palms of his hands on his clay-smeared trousers.

  “You better get home for now, Bert,” Sheriff Dort advised when they were standing on the porch in front of the bank. Stallart held a canvas sack containing the gold coins.

  “I ain’t in no hurry,” Stallart said, wondering why the sheriff seemed nervous all of a sudden. “Nothin’ to go home for.”

  “You’ve got the money. Now do what I suggested about your ranch. Don’t ruin it all now.”

  “I feel the need of a drink. Come along. I’ll buy.”

  When they stood in the Jewel with glasses in their hands, Sheriff Dort advised, “You’d best be heading back to Anchor. Get your affairs straightened up with Rim Bolden. At least that’ll be one stone off your back.”

  Stallart said, “I hear my niece is still in town.” Nobody said anything.

  Stallart was drinking steadily now, thinking about Ellamae and not about any business with his foreman-partner. He was remembering many things that concerned his niece. He was in that moment remembering his brother Paul, Ellamae’s father. And a quick shuddering horror enveloped him. He squeezed his eyes shut and felt the sting of tears. That was the trouble with whisky. It melted down your guts. It was like an acid that ate into that one secret corner of your mind where you stored those things you could not afford to examine too closely. The things that could send you dangerously near the abyss of madness.