The 8th Western Novel

by Dean Owen

“Just what in the hell are you gettin’ at?”

  “This. We’ve got Anchor right in our hands.” Ward’s voice shook slightly with excitement. “All we have to do now is reach out and take it.”

  “I see,” and the sheriff’s voice seemed to suddenly chill. “And what about the Anchor crew? You think they’ll let you take the ranch?”

  “You saw how they acted today. Hell, they didn’t even put up a fight.”

  “That was because there were women in the yard,” Sheriff Dort said. “Now you listen to me, Eric. I’ve had about enough of your dirty game—” The sheriff uttered a strangled cry. There was the sound of a falling body.

  “Meade, you damned savage,” Ward said shakily. “You used a knife on him.”

  “Better a gun?” Meade Jellick said, “and have the boys come roarin’ back to see what the trouble is?”

  Rim lay still, hardly daring to draw a deep breath. His arms hung loosely, completely without feeling.

  For the first time since the war when they could see the glow of Sherman’s campfires and they had no food or ammunition, Rim prayed. Dear God, he said silently, just give me the strength to do this one thing.

  But he knew the odds. What chance did a man have? He felt the blood surging through the veins of his arms, bringing with it ten thousand needle pricks of pain.

  Quietly Rim got to his knees, intending to grab Pete Prentiss by the back of the shirt and topple him from the wagon seat and get his gun.

  There was a sudden sharp explosion behind him and he felt the lashing breath of a bullet stir the back of his shirt. And he thought, It’s all over. This is the very end of everything.

  But he saw to his surprise that Pete Prentiss had thrown his hands wide open. There was a small hole in the center of his back. Prentiss turned sideways, dropping the reins. His arms waving wildly, he fell, dropping from Rim’s vision beyond the wagon sideboard. And in that moment the wagon lurched suddenly into motion.

  Ward yelled, “Jellick, grab that team!”

  There was shouting and the squeal of a horse in pain. Then Ward’s sharp scream was a chilling sound. The sudden forward thrust of the wagon knocked Rim down on the jolting bed. Turning, he saw Stallart huddled against the sideboard, his eyes closed. Gripped in the hands manacled in front of him was a small ladies’ revolver. A finger of smoke from the muzzle drifted against the spreading stain on Stallart’s bandaged thigh.

  It took Rim only a moment to grasp this. Then he seized the revolver, turning. He saw many things in the instant he stared back. The ground was rushing away from the careening wagon. He saw the high mountains, the trees bending in the spring wind that swept down from the Colorado plains. He saw something twisted on the ground twenty yards back. Pete Prentiss, one leg at a grotesque angle, a jutting bone like a broken finger showing from a rip in his pants. Beyond was the sheriff, kneeling as if in an attitude of prayer. And nearer to the bouncing lowered tailgate that clattered like a Gattling gun, he saw Eric Ward on his back, hands pressed down on his face.

  Cutting through the dust that boiled up from the hoofs of the runaway team, came the giant Meade Jellick. His bandaged head was low over the neck of his thundering Morgan horse. There was a jet of orange-red flame from Jellick’s hand. The bullet neatly carved a long splinter of wood from a sideboard near Rim’s head. He felt the sting of splinters in his cheek. Bracing himself, he fired. But the small weapon was either inaccurate or the surging bed of the wagon threw off his aim. Jellick was getting closer. Close enough for Rim to see his eyes, see the flecks of saliva on the jaws of the big Morgan.

  Another shot from Jellick’s gun. Rim found himself crumpled against a sideboard. And for a moment he didn’t know whether he was hit or whether the wagon, skidding now in a tight turn, had toppled him. He felt a sudden tremendous shock as one of the sideboards was ripped away. He saw the spokes of a splintered wheel arcing into the low branches of pines. He saw the gashing of bark on tree trunks as the wagon scraped its way into a grove of trees. Then it lurched, came to a jarring halt. Rim found himself on the ground.

  Panicked, he rose. He couldn’t see Jellick now, but he could hear him beyond the trees. The wagon was on its side a few feet away. Stallart lay near a shattered wheel. Through the trees he could see the team dragging the broken wagon tongue, just disappearing around a bend in the road.

  Desperately Rim tried to get his mind working. He searched for the revolver that had been jarred loose by the fall. He thought he saw it in the brush. But it was only an old canteen. He reached to part some brush.

  But his right hand refused to move at the frantic signal from his brain. And he saw the arm hanging loosely at his side, felt the warm spreading of his own blood along his wrist.

  He heard Jellick’s horse beyond the trees, heard Jellick on his feet now, pounding forward, searching. Then Rim saw something in the ruined wagon that gave him a faint hope. Wedged under the smashed-down seat was a rifle, evidently left there by Pete Prentiss.

  Lurching through the trees he reached the wagon, saw one of the angle irons of the seat suddenly bend grotesquely under a ricochet that whipped high, sending down a shower of pine needles.

  He could hear Jellick’s labored breathing now back in the trees. He tugged on the rifle butt with his left hand. For one frozen moment the weapon refused to move from under the ruined seat. But then it was free in his hands. He fell aside as Jellick, rearing up like some wild beast in the shadowed grove, sent a shot into the wagon.

  Keep calm, Rim thought as he fell. He had bragged that in four years of war he had learned calmness. With his useless right arm dangling, he rolled to his side. He clamped the butt of the rifle between his knees. His left hand worked the loading lever. Then, holding the rifle in his left hand like a revolver, he tried to get up.

  But Jellick was on him. Jellick’s weight flattened him to the ground.

  And he realized then that in one hand Jellick carried a rope. Rim tried to struggle and Jellick, kneeling on the injured right arm brought a scream of pain to his lips. Jellick slapped the rifle out of his hands, got the noose around Rim’s neck. Then Jellick was on his feet, hauling on the rope. The noose dug cruelly into Rim’s throat, cutting off his wind.

  Above the roaring in his head he heard Jellick shout, “Hang me, will you?”

  Then Jellick was dragging him across the uneven ground. But Rim had managed to hook his left forefinger into the trigger guard of the rifle.

  Suddenly he no longer moved and he saw Jellick hurling the coil of rope over a thick tree branch. Then Jellick heaved on the rope. Rim felt a splintering pain in his neck as the weight of his body pulled against the rope. He felt his tongue pop from his mouth. A redness momentarily masked his vision. But he got a knee under him, easing the strain. He came up with the rifle and Jellick seemed to notice for the first time that he held the weapon.

  Jellick dropped the end of the rope, brought up his own belt gun. Rim felt the shock of the bullet that turned him sideways. As he fell he jerked on the rifle trigger. He saw the right side of Jellick’s jaw disintegrate, saw exposed bone. Jellick went to his knees, still gripping the revolver. His eyes were glassy from shock.

  Rim, half-fallen across the rifle, used the weight of his body to hold the weapon while he cocked it. Jellick was laboriously trying to lift the revolver as if it had suddenly been weighted by stone.

  This time Rim aimed for the thickest part of the body. He didn’t even hear the shot because of the roaring in his head. But he saw Jellick fall back. Jellick’s legs were doubled up under him. Jellick didn’t move—

  Somehow Rim managed to get to his feet. He bent over Jellick. The man was dead. He thought in that moment how much the man had cost this country. Dragging the rifle he staggered to the wagon. Stallart was unconscious.

  He was vaguely aware of the sound of hard-ridden horses bearing down from the direction of town, and also from Anchor Bar.


  It was the Anchor bunch who arrived first. Ed Rule, one arm in a crude sling, was in the lead. When he saw Rim he yelled something and drew rein. Other Anchor men swung down. They were surrounding Rim, their guns drawn, when Allie Grindge and the bunch that had started for town, surged back.

  “We heard shootin’,” the saloonman said. Then he broke off when he saw the wrecked wagon and the bodies strewn in its path.

  Rim sat down suddenly and waved his men aside so he could see Grindge and the others. “Thanks, Allie,” he said thickly, “for playing Ward’s dirty game.”

  “But I never—” Grindge broke off.

  In the crowd were two of Ward’s men, sent on ahead with the town bunch. Ward hadn’t wanted any more witnesses than necessary. The two men were strangely quiet.

  One of the Anchor men, bending over something down the road, said, “Ward’s dead. Somethin’ smashed his skull. Hoss, maybe, or a wagon wheel.”

  “Better take a look at the sheriff, somebody,” another man yelled. “He’s got a knife in him but he ain’t dead.”

  It was all Rim remembered until he woke up in one of the bedrooms at Anchor. His right arm felt numb and he saw the bandage and felt the other bandage at his side.

  Marcy stood looking down at him, her dark eyes wet. “Thank God you’re conscious—”

  “How long—since it happened?”

  “Yesterday.”

  Rim tried to think. “How’s Bert?”

  “Doc Snider is with him. Bert will be all right. Doc would have been here sooner but he was delivering a baby.”

  Rim struggled up in the bed fell back. Marcy put an arm across his shoulders. He sank back to the pillows she piled behind him. “It’s war now, Marcy,” Rim said. “We’ve got to fight this thing to the end.”

  “One thing is straightened up at least,” she said in a dead voice. “The sheriff told how he’d been taken in by Ward. He told of Jellick’s treachery with the knife.”

  “Dort is still alive?”

  She shook her dark head. “He died regretting that before he came here yesterday he wrote a letter to the sheriff at the town where Bert—where Bert was sentenced to hang. They’ll be coming for him.” She spread her hands, looked away.

  It was an effort for Rim to swing his feet out of the bed. His head swam. Marcy protested when he tried to stand. He sank to the bed.

  “Find out if Bert can be moved,” he snapped. “If he can, I want another wagon. I want you and Bert to head south. Take Ed Rule with you. And ten men. Head for the border. Stay across the line at Paso until you hear from me.”

  “Bert can’t run for the rest of his life—”

  “You do what I say, Marcy. I’m running things now. Bert isn’t going back to Kansas to hang for the accidental shooting of his brother.”

  “All these tears, this blood. Because of the greed of two men, Ward and Jellick. I hope they suffer, wherever they are.”

  “You do what I say, Marcy. Get that wagon. When they come from Kansas for Bert, I’ll explain. If they won’t listen, I’ll sell out Anchor. I’ll join you both in Mexico. We’ll start a new Anchor down there.”

  She swallowed and lowered her eyes. “We owe you so much. And after what Bert has done to you—”

  “He’s evened it up. He saved my life. He shot Pete Prentiss. I couldn’t have handled them all.”

  “He told me. It was Ellamae’s gun.”

  Rim frowned. “Don’t tell me Ellamae had a change of heart.”

  “I don’t know,” Marcy said, “and she didn’t tell me before she left. All I know is that you were unconscious in the yard. Just before they put you and Bert into the wagon she beat at him with her fists. Calling him the murderer of her father. I guess she slipped the gun under his shirt.”

  “Maybe there’s some good in her after all. Maybe—”

  “Perhaps it was something Bert told her in the yard, I don’t know. Something that stirred her memory. Something her mother told her when she was a little girl. Something she overheard. About her father. Anyway, before she left she said it was possible that what Bert said was true. That her father was the sort of person who could break up a man’s home.”

  “She’s come to her senses at last.”

  Marcy shook her head. “People don’t change that quickly. She’s going to Tucson. You haven’t asked about Ward’s sister,” she added.

  Rim stared down at the clean white bandage on his arm. He felt sick, and knew that a fever was climbing through him. “She’ll blame me for her brother’s death.”

  “She shouldn’t. She knows the truth about Ward now. She heard it from those who were there when the sheriff talked. It’s a great shock to her. She wants to go back to St. Louis. At least that’s what she said last night.”

  “Well, I suppose a gentle girl like that has no place in this rough country.”

  “I was a gentle girl once, Rim. This country isn’t too rough for me. I almost gave up, but not quite. Thanks to you.”

  The door opened and Doc Snider came in, looking tired. He sat down on the edge of the bed, put a hand against Rim’s forehead. “You’ve got no business sitting up.”

  “I’ve told Marcy what’s to be done,” Rim said.

  Marcy shook her head. “I can’t leave now. You’ll need somebody to nurse you—”

  Doc Snider fingered his graying goatee. “There’s a Miss Ward in LaVentana. Maybe you could get her to come out here, Marcy.”

  “I thought she was going back to St. Louis,” Rim said.

  “You know how the stage schedules are around here Rim,” the doctor said. “Chances are she hasn’t left yet. I happen to know she purposely missed the noon stage—”

  Rim said, “I’ll ride in.”

  Doc Snider snorted. “You’ll stay in bed. Send a man in with a message. I have a feeling she’s waiting for it.”

  CHEYENNE SATURDAY, by Richard Jessup

  Originally published in 1957.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The June sun climbed quickly above the rim of the Nebraska plains and began drawing off the morning freshness of the grass. The railhead was now west of the North Platte River and with the first streaks of dawn, massive, burly Irishmen began moving out of their tents to stand before the flaps and stare out into the endless plains. In the distance, those farthest to the west could see the unhurried movements of black-brown buffalo grazing contentedly. And beyond the buffalo, they could see the markers of the surveyors where rails would be laid by nightfall.

  The railhead began to stir itself awake. Voices of lean and hungry men broke the air. There were men wearing faded uniform trousers of both Confederate and Union Armies, with accents from a dozen regions and broken English from as many countries. And now, in the fullness of the chill morning, buckos, gang bosses, ex-sergeants and officers moved among the sea of tents whipping their work gangs into haste. And the men who labored on the Union Pacific Railroad for seventy dollars a month whipped back at their buckos, often good-naturedly, often, too, with temper. They were not all ex-soldiers, obeying commands with the dispatch of army discipline. There were malingerers too, surly men who gambled and drank in the grog tents by night and sloughed their jobs during the day, whisky sweat drenching them under the Nebraska sun. But good-tempered or foul, they were wary, all of them, and alive to danger.

  Danger on the railhead of the Union Pacific came any way at all. From the serpent-like slash of an enraged Confederate’s knife; the sly, unwarned blow of a drunken Irishman; the dart of a rattlesnake; the crash of a rail on a leg, leaving an injured man to die of gangrene far from home on the hot grassy plains. But more dreaded than these dangers, or the civilized threats encountered in Jeremy Watson’s grog tents, from his women or his gambling tables, were the swift, brutal attacks of the Indians.

  As the men grumbled and stretched their way into the cook tents for br
eakfast, Liam Kelly, six feet four inches and two hundred seventy pounds of Black Irishman, emerged from his tent. Thoughtfully, his eyes traveled the length of the plain’s horizon, stopping momentarily on the herd of grazing buffalo, and then skipping to a low, swollen rise some twenty miles out ahead. His eyes rested on the hump while he bit into his first chew of tobacco of the day. He would use up five plugs before the sun went down.

  “Slocum, lad,” Kelly said to a young man passing him, “did the surveyors and graders all get back to camp last night?”

  Slocum followed Kelly’s gaze to the distant rise. “You thinkin’ Goose Face out behind that hillock, Mr. Kelly?” he asked. He wore threadbare Confederate-gray trousers stuffed into the top of Texas boots.

  “If he isn’t, lad, I’ll be more worried than I am, wondering where the bloody bastard might hit us next.” Kelly shifted his tobacco cud to his other cheek, lodged it snugly behind his teeth, and spat neatly and accurately. “He’s a clever bugger, Slocum, and he knows that today is Saturday when the Johnny-Jacks will be drinkin’ and carousin’ in the grog tents with their pay.”

  “Well, Mr. Kelly,” Slocum said, dropping easily to his haunches and sucking on a blade of grass, “seein’ how this is war—fer him it’s war leastways—I reckon I’d do the same thing. Hit us when we wasn’t expectin’ it.” He nodded. “I never learned much else but fightin’ in the conflict between the states, but I learned that. Hit ’em when they don’t expect it.”

  Slocum, who was hardly more than twenty-one, twisted around. “I don’t see Jake’s hoss,” he said thoughtfully, “so I guess he ain’t in from scoutin’.”

  Kelly grunted. “I’ll send Little out. Even if the graders and surveyors did come back, I don’t like it. Now you get down to the grog tents and rush Little back here. Bring him to the general’s office; and I want him sober, lad. If he’s drunk, soak his head in a bucket of brine.” He squinted toward the rise. “If Goose Face is out there, I want to know about it. And I want to know how many of them blackhearted braves he’s got with him, and just what his position is.”