The 8th Western Novel

by Dean Owen

  “Paw was killed in a runnin’ fight with some Apaches when they tried to raid the range one night back in fifty-four. The Apaches got our cattle.”

  Ellis examined each cartridge as he slipped it into the chamber. “Buster, my brother, and me worked the cattle for Maw. We worked up a nice little herd and when beef prices went sky-high back in sixty-one because of the war, we sold off everything except the breed stock. Buster and I came home from the drive that took us halfway across the country—up to Oklahoma so the herd could eat high on the good grass and then on through to the buyers in Missouri—fightin’ Indians and raiders, stampedes and cold and rain and heat and drought every step of the way. But we got our price and we went home. Maw said the money was for us—half ’n’ half—sixty-eight thousand dollars.”

  The Colt was loaded and Ellis slipped it back into his holster and stood up. He carefully tied the leather thongs around his thigh and faced Liza. “But the war was on then and I was hot to get in it. I wasn’t for the South; I was just against anythin’ anywhere at any time. I was a young hard-head wantin’ to fight.

  The Colt was not quite low enough and he untied the thongs from around his leg and slipped the belt up on his left hip, dropping the Colt another half inch on his right thigh. He began to tie it down again.

  “I went off to fight and left Maw and Buster to take care of the breed stock and start buildin’ up a really fine herd. Buster was a good breeder and with the money to experiment, we were goin’ to have the finest cattle in the country. I got home once in a while to see ’em and everythin’ was fine. We had nearly five hundred head of prime beef—worth about thirty thousand on the markets then—but we didn’t want to sell, ’cause that herd was the backbone of the future.

  “Then the cattle were rustled and Buster and Maw were killed tryin’ to fight the rustlers off. When I got back, I started lookin’ for ’em. There wasn’t but five of them, and the Indians got two on the trail to market. One of ’em was drowned crossin’ the Brazos and the fourth was killed in a saloon in St. Louis spendin’ his money. Lefty Hayes was the boss of the outfit and he’s the only one left.”

  Nathan Ellis drew the Colt, testing the position of the butt on his leg. Liza Reeves blinked. Kelly stared in awe at the blur of Ellis’s draw.

  “So, woman, I’m goin’ lookin’ for Lefty. I love you and I guess when I get back we’ll go on down to the Sky Rock spread on the Colorado—but don’t try and stop me now.”

  He went quickly from the fire into the shadows and headed for Watson’s tents.

  * * * *

  The Johnny-Jacks had had their pay just long enough to get good and drunk when Ellis pushed through the maw of the huge tent. He moved toward the bar searching the faces of the men. He did not know Lefty Hayes by sight. His right hand dangled and brushed the butt of the Colt as he toured the bar, stopping now and then to stare at a man who wore his gun slung low, or at the back of another who looked like a rider who might just have returned from Green River. He circled the bar and returned to stand before the huge tent maw.

  “By God, here’s this fellow that got ol’ Goose Face! Have a drink!”

  “Give ’im anything he wants, bartender, he’s a regular friend of mine!”

  “Weeeoooew! Scalped the bastard, he did!”

  Ellis accepted the slaps on the back by the working men of the railroad but refused to drink. He put his back to the bar and faced the maw.

  Every new arrival was examined by Ellis. Every man who wore a gun was watched expectantly.

  “You lookin’ for Lefty?” Garrity slipped up quietly beside Ellis.

  “You know where he is?”

  “He said to tell you he don’t even know who you are, and that that word Sky Rock don’t mean anythin’ to him. But he said if you want a shoot-out, he’ll be along in a minute.” Garrity backed up. “You goin’ to need an extra big grave, mister.”

  Ellis backhanded Garrity across the face and rammed him up against the bar. Garrity tried to draw his gun.

  “You draw and I’ll blow your guts out,” Ellis said harshly.

  “What do you want of me? I didn’t do nothin’!”

  “You go tell Lefty that my name is Nathan Ellis, that he killed my maw and my brother, that I’m goin’ to kill him—here—tonight—and that if he rides outa camp I’ll trail him for the rest of his life.”

  Garrity’s eyes widened. “Killed your maw!”

  “Git!” Ellis shoved the man toward the door.

  Garrity fled.

  The Johnny-Jacks near Ellis had heard everything. They began to fall back quietly.

  Watson rounded the corner of the bar and strode up to Ellis. “We don’t want no trouble in here. You’re disturbin’ my business. You got a fight with Lefty, take it outside.”

  Two of Watson’s men stood behind their boss. With his bandaged left hand, Ellis reached for a heavy Johnny-Jack canteen and swung it at Watson’s head. He drew the Colt with his right and covered the others.

  Watson slumped to the ground. “Drop them guns and make it goddam quick!” Ellis commanded.

  The other two lowered their guns and backed away. Watson groaned and tried to lift his head. Then he opened his eyes and began to crawl away, back from the cleared space before the opening of the tent.

  The bar suddenly became silent. A white flag appeared in the mouth of the tent, and Garrity showed himself. “Lefty’s coming, big fellow!”

  The Johnny-Jacks moved farther back, pressing against the walls of the tent, Clearing the space between Ellis and the maw of the tent.

  There was movement in the shadows beyond the rim of light outside. Ellis tensed.

  Liza Reeves, still in her Indian breeches, and Liam Kelly stepped inside. Kelly moved to one side but Liza strode right up to Ellis. She had Kelly’s heavy Colt strapped to her waist. The holster had been tied down.

  “Get outa here,” Ellis said expressionlessly.

  “I reckon I’m goin’ to see that it’s a fair fight, one way or the other,” she said determinedly.

  “You’ll get killed.”

  “Mebbe.”

  “All right, stay then,” Ellis said and moved away from her.

  There was laughter outside the tent and the sounds of footsteps. Six men wheeled into the tent, Lefty Hayes at the head of them. “What fellow here’s goin’ to get me for killin’ his maw?”

  He had hardly finished his words before Liza Reeves had the Colt out and steadied on the six men. “You others just step back with your leather empty.”

  One of the men laughed and moved for his hip. Liza shot him in the arm. “I said move!”

  Ellis had not taken his eyes from Lefty Hayes. Nor had the slight, thin man in dusty trail clothes removed his eyes from Ellis.

  Hayes nodded slightly in Liza’s direction. “Bring your squaw along to help you fight, boy?”

  “Did you rustle five hundred head of cattle from a ranch on the Colorado a couple of years back?”

  “Sure I did. What about it?”

  “You’re my man.”

  “You callin’ me out?”

  “You’re out.”

  “Are you for woundin’ or killin’?”

  “One of us goes out in a pine box.”

  “Make your move, big fellow.”

  Ellis jerked the Colt out and fanned the hammer five times. Hayes’s gun was torn out of his hand by a wild slug. The other four ripped into his chest. Hayes was hurled back to the maw of the tent and hit the ground flat on his back.

  Ellis walked over and fired a final bullet into Lefty Hayes’s head.

  He turned slowly, pushing the Colt into his holster, and motioned to Liza. “Come on,” he said.

  Liza walked through the clearing, stepped over the body of Lefty Hayes and disappeared into the darkness with Ellis.

  CHAPTER TEN


  “Can’t you at least stay around until mornin’?” Kelly growled. “You both look like you been dragged through the pit of the damned, and it’s only three o’clock now.”

  “If you don’t shut up, Kelly, we’re goin’ to have that roustin’ we started at the railroad train.” Ellis grinned. “We got a long way to go. Clear across Kansas and half of Texas before we get home.”

  “Lad, I’d like to see the two of you married. I’d like to stand up for both of you,” Kelly said softly.

  “You ain’t got a preacher in camp,” Liza protested.

  “There’s a Mexican padre who serves some of the lads on the gang. I don’t reckon you belong to the Holy Church, but—”

  “I ain’t got no objections,” Ellis said.

  “Me neither,” Liza said.

  “I’ll go get him. Come with me.”

  “You come, too, boy,” Ellis said to the Jehu. “Damned if I don’t feel good all of a sudden.”

  * * * *

  Their names had been entered on the official log of the railroad and they had signed the sleepy-eyed priest’s prayer book. They had been given the finest horses in the railroad’s corral, fitted with saddles from the supply house, blankets and a sack of beans, coffee and sugar. The Jehu had miraculously found Ellis’s carbine and it had been cleaned and loaded. Mr. and Mrs. Ellis swung to the backs of their ponies and shook hands all around. Kelly was crying unabashedly. “I’ll never forget you, lad. Nor you, miss.”

  “Missus, now,” Liza said with a grin.

  “We call it the Sky Rock. It’s on the Colorado near Center City, Texas, Kelly. That’s where we’ll be any time you want to visit.” Ellis nodded to the Jehu. “Boy, when you get sick of railroadin’, you come on down to Texas. We’ll help you find a place for yourself.”

  The Jehu grinned. “Thank you, mister.”

  “Let’s go, woman. We got a lot of travelin’ to do before the heat of the day.”

  They waved to Kelly and turned their horses south and favoring the east a little.

  Kelly watched them disappear into the southeastern sky where the sun would emerge soon, and then turned to his tent.

  “There’s a letter for you, Mr. Kelly,” the boy said. “It has a funny-lookin’ stamp.”

  Kelly smiled. His Kathleen had not forgotten. Well, he sighed, pulling off his boots and loosening his belt, I wonder if her sister’s caught herself a lad yet.

  In the light of a lantern, wire-framed spectacles on the end of his nose, Kelly opened the letter from his wife.

  “My dearest,” he said, reading aloud. “It is so quiet and peaceful here—I wonder if you are blessed with the same?”

  * * * *

  They had ridden without stopping into the heat of the day, when they struck a stream of running water.

  “I reckon we better light and rest,” Ellis said, not looking at his wife. “Hungry?”

  “I could eat, I reckon,” Liza said casually. “You take care of the horses and I’ll set to makin’ somethin’ or other.”

  They camped in the depth of a clump of trees where birds sang. Liza expertly made a fire, put cans of beans against fire, stripped bacon with her knife, and smoked it above the flames.

  Ellis returned and squatted down beside the fire. He accepted the can of beans Liza had opened with her knife and bit into a hot strip of bacon.

  They ate hungrily and in silence, not looking at each other, speaking in unnaturally casual tones, when they spoke at all, about the raid or Kelly or the crippled Jehu, not really thinking about what they said at all.

  Liza took a great deal of time putting out the fire. Finally she turned to look at Ellis.

  Her eyes widened.

  Ellis was advancing toward her, a huge bar of gray soap in his hand. “I’ve been wantin’ to give you a bath since the first time I seen you.”

  Liza backed off. “Now hold on—”

  “You goin’ to come gentle, or am I goin’ to have to tie you down?”

  Liza turned to run, but she had hesitated a moment too long. Ellis grabbed her by the wrist.

  “No, you don’t!” Liza screamed. “No man’s goin’ to wash me—”

  “I am,” Ellis said heavily. He dodged her slashing nails. Slinging her lightly to his shoulder, he carried the screaming, kicking Liza toward the creek.

  At the edge of the water Liza bit him on the arm. Ellis bellowed and threw her into the water. She came up gasping. Nathan Ellis grinned and dove in after her.

  To one side the horses raised their heads at the noise, and then went on nuzzling the grass.

  PARADISE TRAIL, by William Byron Mowery

  Originally published in 1936.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Well, I’ve achieved popularity, at any rate!” Gary mused, looking at the poster tacked to a telephone pole. “A person would think I’m running for premier, the way my picture is splashed all over half a dozen provinces!”

  In the hot sun of a July afternoon he stood on a curb in the little mining city of Saghelia, glancing at the poster and watching a Mounted Policeman across the street. Hungry, penniless, a hunted fugitive with the shadow of death hanging over him, he nevertheless was philosopher enough to fling a jest at his desperate plight.

  It daunted him to discover that the man-hunt had penetrated even to this mountain-buried town in northern British Columbia. For two thousand miles he had flitted like a box-car ghost from city to city—Winnipeg, Saskatoon, Edmonton, Jasper—heading blindly westward for oblivion and safety. Yesterday, suspecting that the Pacific Coast towns would be on the lookout for him, he had left the Grand Trunk and dodged north eighty miles on an obscure spur line, praying that no whisper of the hunt had reached this Saghelia country. And now, that poster, and that red-coated peril yonder, looking at him…

  As he lifted his eyes to the mountains cradling the smoky town, it seemed ages ago that he had left Chicago and headed north for a summer in the Canadian harvest fields. He hardly could realize that he had fled clear across the continent to the far North-West, without breath of the Pacific Ocean.

  A terrific lot could happen to a person in one short month, he reflected. More than had happened to him previously in all his twenty-four years. With a wry smile he imagined the pop-eyed astonishment of his Chicago acquaintances when they had read that Gary Frazier, the quiet law student, had wrecked a mail truck in Winnipeg, killed the driver and a clerk, and had stolen twenty-two thousand dollars!

  His picture on the poster was a very poor likeness, and this fact reassured him a little; but even so he wished that the Mounted sergeant yonder would move on. A tingle of uneasiness jigged through him every time the man glanced his way. On his flight across the provinces he had outwitted city cops a-plenty and slipped out of several tight squeezes with the Provincials; but these Mounteds were bad eggs. And this particular specimen, a sharp-eyed man of thirty, silent and watchful, looked like especially bad poison.

  Though it was well on toward six o’clock, the sun stood as high in the sky as at mid-afternoon in Chicago. Half an hour ago the whistles had blown at the near-by mines; and the miners were streaming into town, some heading for the two taverns, some trickling into the general stores for tobacco or carbide, some trudging straight homeward.

  To Gary’s surprise the men seemed little different, as a group, from the outpouring of a factory or railroad shops in his home city. And Saghelia itself, for all the wild mountains around it, was strangely like any small steel town of the Chicago area. The numerous Indians and swart half-breeds, the occasional picturesque prospector or whiskery trapper in from the ranges, gave a certain frontier tone to the place; but deep down the basic patterns were exactly the same as he had known all his life: housewives making supper purchases, children playing in the dingy streets, grimy sparrows quarreling in the dust, loafers idling at drug store and corner, a certain stagnation everyw
here, a certain weary boredom on people’s faces.

  A middle-aged miner stopped beside him and asked for a light; and Gary took the occasion to inquire:

  “Any chance of a job at one of these mines, partner?” He gestured at the dozen shafts sprawled against the south range.

  “Hunh? A job, you say? You must be a stranger around here to ask that. The Caspers are only runnin’ one shift, and the Ludlow’s are layin’ men off.”

  “How about these lumber outfits—any chance there? Or d’you know of any opening around here?”

  The man shook his head. “Ain’t anything.” He lit his pipe, stared a moment at the poster, said “hmmph!” as he read of the five-thousand-dollar reward, and walked on.

  “Damn all!” Gary thought, dismayed. “This is a pretty kettle of fish! I’ve got to stay here. If I keep on the move or even try to dodge back to the Grand Trunk, I’ll get nailed as sure as little green apples. This place is my best bet. If I can only hole in here and lay low for a while, I might have a Chinaman’s chance to get out of Canada.”

  But to stay he needed a job, and at once. He had not had a decent meal in days; these mountain nights were too cold for sleeping under a railroad bridge; and if that sergeant saw him idling around town, the man would get suspicious and look into him.

  Up the street a shiny car swung around a corner, purred down toward him and stopped beside the telephone pole. An expensive imported roadster, with its silver and glass a dazzling glitter in the sun, it was one of the few cars which Gary had seen in the little steel-end town. Its occupants were a girl of twenty and a man of Gary’s own age.

  The two were evidently bound for a bit of trouting that evening—in the rumble seat he noticed tackle boxes, fly-poles in bamboo cases, and other fishing gear.

  The awed glances from the miners and loiterers told Gary that this young couple were people of considerable importance in Saghelia. As yet he did not know that they were practically Saghelia itself; that he was looking upon Mona Casper and young Hugh Ludlow, heirs to these mills and timber limits and the precious hard-rock veins in the range yonder.