Bowdrie (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures)

by Louis L'Amour

  Instinct told him what horses these were, and with that realization came a heightened sense of danger. Roberts was just ahead, spurring now to catch the girl.

  Bowdrie turned sharply away from the notch and skirted the canyon, keeping to the brush but riding fast. He dismounted behind a ramshackle barn and eased himself to the corner. Peering around, he saw four horses in the corral.

  The Morgan horses! Then Roberts…He heard voices, Murray Roberts’ voice. “How’d you know about this place?” he was demanding.

  “I saw you riding here. Later, I saw him coming here. I had no idea what was here, but I had to find out.”

  “Now you’ve found out, you’d better get, an’ quick! If he finds you here, he’ll kill you.” He was silent for a moment, then added, “Meg, let’s you an’ me cut out. Nobody’s got a chance with him around! He killed—”

  “Who did I kill?”

  The voice was so close that Bowdrie started as if stung. Then he realized the voice came from the barn behind which he was hiding.

  “Rack!” Roberts was startled. “I thought—!”

  “You thought I was back at the ranch!” Rack Herman moved out of the barn, walking toward them. “You didn’t think I’d have a hideout without two ways in an’ out, did you?”

  He moved closer to them. “Murray, you’re a weak sister! I’ve seen this comin’ and knew I’d have you to kill. You’re no good to me, anyway, and I’ve got the old man right where I want him, and it’s time to clean house. I’ve already taken care of Peters, and now you.”

  Murray Roberts went for his gun and was too slow by half. Rack Herman put three bullets over his belt buckle before Roberts’ gun had cleared its holster.

  Rack Herman thumbed shells from his belt, but before he could load, Bowdrie stepped from behind the barn. “Drop it, Rack! Drop it right where you are and then move back!”

  Rack let the gun slip from his fingers and moved back away from it. “If you didn’t have that gun, I’d…!”

  What made him do it, Bowdrie never knew, but he unbuckled his gunbelt and handed it to Meg. “Don’t shoot unless it is to save yourself. Maybe I’m a damned fool, but I’ve got this to do.”

  She took the guns, and Rack moved toward him, sure of himself now. As they came together, Bowdrie stabbed a left to Herman’s face, but the man took the blow and kept coming, very sure of himself.

  A smashing blow caught Bowdrie in the ribs and a clubbing right caught his jaw and started bells ringing in his skull. He felt himself falling, heard Rack’s grunt of satisfaction.

  His knees hit the dust and then Bowdrie came up as Rack closed in. Bowdrie hooked hard to the side of the face, twisted away, and stabbed a left to the heavier man’s mouth, drawing blood.

  Herman could punch unbelievably fast. He caught Bowdrie with a left and right, but Bowdrie’s right caught Herman on the chin. Yet how he got through the next few minutes, he never knew. Blows rained on his head, jaw, and shoulders, yet he stayed on his feet, taking them and fighting back. Through his befogged brain an idea penetrated. Battered though he was, Bowdrie realized that Rack was gasping for breath.

  Powerful as he was, and amazingly fast for such a heavy man, Herman was carrying a huge weight and the sun was hot. Bowdrie, dried by desert suns and winds, was lean as an ironwood tree and just as resilient. No doubt Herman had won most of his fights with a blow or two, but Bowdrie had soaked up what punishment he could give and was still on his feet.

  Through the fog in his brain and the taste of blood in his mouth, Chick knew he could win. Hurt though he was, he drew on some well of desperation within him and began to punch.

  Left, right, left, right, blow after battering blow pounded the huge body and the brutal face. His arms were weary from just punching, but Herman’s mouth was hanging open as he gasped for every breath.

  Stepping away, he feinted, and as the heavier man’s hands came up, he threw a low hard right to the midsection. Then, weaving to avoid the pawing blows, he threw blow after blow to the heavy body. Then there was nobody in front of him and hands were grabbing him.

  “Stop it, man! You’ll kill him! Stop it!”

  They pulled him back, and Rack Herman lay on the ground against the barn wall, his face bloody and battered.

  Jack Darcy and Rainy were there, holding him back from the man he had come so far to find, Rack Herman, the man who had once called himself Carl Dyson. Bowdrie knew he would have to look no further for the saddle he had hoped to find.

  He shook his head to clear it of the last of the dwindling fog. He stared at Rainy. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’d been wanting to marry Jack’s sister,” Rainy explained, “but Dan Lingle beat me out. He was a good man and I held no grudge, but I came on to find Darcy. I knew her murderer was somewhere around.”

  “That was only one murder. There was another in Texas.” He took his gunbelt from Meg and slung it about his shoulders. “I’d no business doing this”—he gestured at Herman, who was being helped to his feet by Darcy—“but the man’s arrogance kind of got under my skin.”

  “He had it coming,” Rainy agreed, “but he’ll live long enough to hang.”

  Holding their prisoner, they walked toward the corral. The Morgans were waiting, heads up, alert.

  “After you get those horses back where they belong,” Darcy suggested, “why don’t you come back? There’s a lot of good cattle country around here.”

  Bowdrie slapped the dust from his hat. “I’m a Ranger,” he said, “and there’s always work for a Ranger. Come to one trail’s end, and there’s always another. I kind of like it that way.”

  Historical Note

  TEXAS IS MANY different places, and if you do not like the weather, just wait a minute.

  From the piney woods in the northeast to the citrus groves of the southeast, from the rolling hills of central Texas to the mesas and canyons of the Big Bend and the short grass plains of the Panhandle, it is alive with history.

  No town is too small, no canyon too remote to be without its story. Spanish explorers, Indians, pirates, buffalo hunters, trail drivers, soldiers, cowboys, steamboat captains, ranchers, and Texas Rangers are but a few of those who parade across Texas’s history. Texas has its ghost towns, lost treasures, vanished wagon trains, as well as daring raids, in both directions, across the border.

  Enforcing the law in any part of the West during the pioneer years was never easy. The men who came west were individualists, accustomed to handling their own affairs and settling their own disputes, and they did not invite interference from the law. Most of them were familiar with firearms, many had served in one army or another or had engaged in battles with Indians.

  If cattle or horses were stolen, by the time a man had reported the theft to the law the stock would have been driven over the border. It was much simpler and usually less expensive to recover the stock yourself, and if gunplay ensued, that was merely one of the hazards of the frontier.

  The men chosen for service in the Rangers had often proved themselves in such situations without requesting the aid of the law. By and large they had grown up on the frontier, were accustomed to frontier conditions and people, and understood the feelings as well as the problems.

  The stories, characters, and towns in these stories are fictional; the items that appear on the pages between the various stories are fact.

  A JOB FOR A RANGER

  THERE WERE TWO bullet holes in the bank window, and there was blood on the hitching rail where the cashier had fallen while trying to get off a last shot. Lem Pullitt had died there by the rail, but not before telling how he had been shot while his hands were up.

  Chick Bowdrie stood on the boardwalk, his dark, Apache-like features showing no expression. “I don’t like it,” he muttered. “Either the holdup man was a cold-blooded killer or somebody wanted Pullitt killed.”


  He glanced up the street again, his eyes searching the buildings, the walks, the horses tied at the rails. Many men kill, but killing a game man when his hands were up…it just wasn’t the way things were done in Texas. And Lem had been game or he would not have stumbled out there, dying, trying for a shot.

  The bandits had come into town in two groups. One man with a rifle dismounted in front of the Rancher’s Rest while the others rode on to the bank. One then remained outside with the horses, and three had gone inside.

  When shots sounded from inside the bank, men rushed to the street; then the man with the rifle opened fire. He covered the retreat of the four men at the bank, but what had become of the man with the rifle? He had not run the gauntlet in the street.

  Henry Plank, clerk in the stage station, had stepped to the door and opened fire on the fleeing bandits. He claimed to have winged one of them. Bowdrie pushed his hat back on his head and studied the street, scowling.

  A large man with a blond mustache emerged from the bank and walked over to where Bowdrie stood. His face was florid and he wore a wide, dusty Stetson.

  “Are you the Ranger?”

  Bowdrie turned his black eyes on the man, who felt a sudden shiver go through him. There was something in those eyes that made him feel uncomfortable.

  “Name of Bowdrie. Chick, they call me. You’re Bates?”

  “Yes. They call me Big Jim. I am the banker. Or maybe I should say, I was the banker.”

  “Is it that bad?”

  Bowdrie’s eyes strayed up the street. That was the direction from which the bandits had come. They could not have been seen until they were right in the street, and when they left, it was in the opposite direction, which put them behind some cottonwoods within a minute or two.

  On the side of the street where he stood were the bank, a livery stable, a general store, and a blacksmith shop. At the opposite end, standing out a little from the other buildings, was the Rancher’s Rest. Across from the Rest were a corral, two houses, a dance hall, now closed, and the Chuck Wagon, a combination saloon and eating house. Directly across was the stage station.

  “Yeah,” Big Jim said, “it is that bad. I’ve got money out on loans. Too darned much. None of the loans are due now. A few weeks ago I loaned ten thousand to Jackson Kegley, and I was figurin’ on loanin’ him the ten thousand they stole.”

  “Who’s Kegley?”

  “Kegley? He owns the Rest. Got a big cattle spread west of town. Runs eight, nine thousand head of stock. His place runs clean up to West Fork. That’s where the Tom Roway place is.”

  “Roway’s the man you think done it? Something to that effect was in the report.”

  Bates shrugged. “I ain’t seen Tom Roway but twice in five years. He killed a couple of men in shootin’ scrapes, then went to the pen for shootin’ a man in the back.

  “Three years ago he came back and brought Mig Barnes along. Barnes is pretty tough himself, or so they say.”

  “Why did you suspect Roway?”

  “Bob Singer…he’s a puncher around here, seen that paint horse. I guess everybody else saw it, too. The gent who used the rifle was ridin’ that paint. Sorrel splash on the left hip and several dabs of color on the left shoulder.”

  “Did you send a posse after them?”

  Bates looked embarrassed “Nobody would go. Tom Roway is mighty handy with a rifle and he’s fast with a six-shooter. Bob Singer is pretty salty himself, and he wouldn’t go, and after that, people just sort of backed off. Finally Kegley, Joel, an’ me went out. We lost the trail in the waters of West Fork.”

  “Joel?”

  “My son. He’s twenty-one, and a pretty good tracker.”

  Chick walked past the bank. There was a bullet hole in the side window of the bank, too. When they started shooting in some of these towns, they surely shot things up. He walked on to the Rancher’s Rest and stepped inside.

  Aside from the bartender, there were three men in the saloon. The big, handsome man standing at the bar had a pleasant face, and he turned to smile at Bowdrie as he entered.

  A man at a card table playing solitaire had a tied-down gun. The third man was a lantern-jawed puncher with straw-colored hair.

  “You’ll be Bowdrie, I guess,” the big man said. “I am Jackson Kegley. This is my place.”

  “How’re you?”

  Chick glanced at the straw-haired puncher. He grinned with wry humor. “I’m Rip Coker. That shrinkin’ violet at the card table is Bob Singer. Better keep an eye on him, Ranger, he’s mighty slick with an iron, either shootin’ or brandin’.”

  Singer glared at Coker, and his lips thinned as he looked down at his cards. Chick noticed the glance, then turned his attention to Kegley.

  “You know Roway. Do you think he done it?”

  “I wouldn’t know. He’s a damn good shot. We trailed him as far as the West Fork.”

  Coker leaned his forearms on the bar. His plaid shirt was faded and worn. “Roway’s not so bad,” he commented, “and I don’t think he done it.”

  Singer was impatient. “Nobody could miss that paint hoss,” he suggested. “Ain’t another in the county like it.”

  Coker gave Singer a disgusted glance. “Then why would he ride it? If you was robbin’ a bank, would you ride the most noticeable horse around?”

  Bob Singer flushed angrily and his eyes were hard when he looked up, but he offered no comment.

  “I’ll look around some,” Bowdrie said.

  He walked outside, studying the street again. There was a suggestion of an idea in his mind, and something felt wrong about the whole affair. He went to the hotel section of the Rest and signed for a room, then strolled outside.

  Something in the dust at his feet caught his eye, and he stepped down off the walk, running the dust through his fingers. He took something from the dust, placed it carefully inside a folded cigarette paper, and put it in his wallet.

  Singer had come out of the saloon and was watching him. Bowdrie ignored him and strolled down to where his horse was tied. He was swinging into the saddle when Bates came to the door. “You ain’t goin’ after him alone, are you?”

  Bowdrie shrugged. “Why not? I haven’t seen any of his graveyards around.”

  He turned the roan into the trail. He was irritable because he was uneasy. There was something wrong here, it was too pat, too set up, and they were too ready to accuse Roway. “Personally,” Bowdrie told the roan, “I agree with Coker. An outlaw using a horse everybody knew, that doesn’t even make sense.”

  The trail was good for the first few miles, then became steadily worse. It wound higher and higher into rougher and rougher country. Skimpy trails edged around cliffs with dropoffs of several hundred feet to the bottom of dry canyons. Then, of a sudden, the trail spilled over a ridge into a green meadow, and that meadow opened into still another, each one skirted by borders of trees. At the end of the last meadow was a cabin, smoke rising from the chimney. A few cattle grazed nearby, and there were horses in the corral.

  Chick Bowdrie rode up and stepped down. One of the horses in the corral was a paint with a splash of sorrel on the hip, a few smaller flecks on the shoulder. It was an unusual marking, unlikely to be duplicated.

  “Lookin’ for something?” The tone was harsh, and Bowdrie took care to keep his hands away from his guns.

  The man stood at the door of his cabin not twenty feet away. He was a hard-visaged man with an unshaved face and cold eyes under bushy black brows. He wore a gun in a worn holster, and beyond him inside the door another man sat on a chair with a rifle across his knees.

  “Are you Tom Roway?”

  “And what if I am?”

  Bowdrie studied him coolly for a long minute and then said, “I’m Chick Bowdrie, a Ranger. We’ve got to have a talk.”

  “I’ve heard of you. I’ve no call to
like the law, but if you want to talk, come on in. Coffee’s on.”

  The man at the door put down his rifle and put a tin plate and a cup on the table. He was a stocky man with a pockmarked face. “Ain’t often we have a Ranger for chow,” he commented.

  Roway sat down, filling three cups. “All right, Ranger, speak your piece. What business do you have with us?”

  “Have you been ridin’ that paint horse lately?”

  “I ride that paint most of the time.”

  “Did you ride into Morales Monday morning and stick up the bank?”

  “What kind of a question is that? No, I didn’t rob no bank and I ain’t been in Morales in a month! What is this? Some kind of a frame-up?”

  “Five men robbed the bank at Morales Monday morning, and one of them was ridin’ a paint horse, a dead ringer for that one out yonder.” Bowdrie gestured toward the corral. “Where was that horse on Monday?”

  “Right where he is now. He ain’t been off this place in a week.” He looked up, scowling. “Who identified that animal?”

  “A dozen people. He was right out in plain sight. Nobody could’ve missed him. One who identified him was Bob Singer.”

  “Singer?” Roway’s eyes flashed. “I’ll kill him!”

  “No you won’t,” Bowdrie said. “If there’s any killin’ done, I’ll do it.”

  For a moment their eyes locked, but Roway was the first to look away. Mig Barnes had been watching, and now he spoke. “Do you reckon Tom would be so foolish as to ride to a holdup with the most known horse in the county? He’d have to be crazy!”

  He gestured outside. “We’ve got a cavvy of broncs, all colors an’ kinds. He could take his pick, so why ride the one horse everybody knows?”

  “I thought of that,” Bowdrie agreed, “and it doesn’t look like anybody with a place like this would want to steal. You boys have got yourselves a ranch!”

  “Best I ever saw!” Roway said. “Grass all year around and water that never gives out. Our cattle are always fat.”