It was a good claim. The spring had a fine flow of excellent water, and the land lay well for farming or grazing. A man could do something with it, fruit trees, maybe. A place like his folks had back East.
Pennock wanted that claim, too, and any way a man looked at it Pennock was in the way.
Jack Pennock finished eating and went outside, ignoring Bostwick. Pennock stopped outside the boardinghouse window picking his teeth with the ivory toothpick that had been hanging from his watchchain. He was looking across the street at the covered wagon. That decided Bostwick. He would get them out of trouble first and then decide about the claim.
“You better lay off Pennock,” Harbridge warned him. “He’s a killer. He’ll be out to get you now, one way or the other.
“He’ll get out that book of city laws and find something he can hang onto you.”
Bostwick had a sudden thought. “Is there just one of them law books? I mean, does anybody else have a copy?”
“I have, I think,” Kate replied dubiously. “My old man was mayor during the boom days. I believe he had one.”
“You have a look. I’ll talk to that girl.”
There was worry in Kate’s eyes. “Now you be careful, young man! Don’t take Pennock lightly!”
“I surely won’t. I ain’t anxious to get hurt. You see,” he said ruefully, “I had my heart set on Squaw Springs myself!”
He splashed across the street to the wagon and rapped on the wagonbox. Dusk was falling but he could see her expression change from fear to relief as she saw him.
“Ma’am, how much does that marshal want for your horses?”
“He said fifty dollars.”
“How’s your grandad?”
“Not very good.” She spoke softly. “I’m worried.”
“Maybe we better get him inside Kate’s house. It’s cold and damp out here.”
“Oh, but we can’t! If we leave the wagon the marshal will take it, too.”
“You get him fixed to move,” Bostwick said. “You leave that marshal to me.”
When he explained to Kate she agreed readily but then wondered, “What about the wagon?”
“I’ll find a way,” he said doubtfully.
“I found that book,” Kate said, “for whatever good it will do you.”
It was not really a book, just a few handwritten sheets stapled together. It was headed boldly: City Ordnances.
Bostwick was a slow reader at best, but he seated himself and began to work his way through the half-dozen pages of what a long-ago town council had decreed for Yellowjacket.
Later, when he had grandad safely installed in the room where Kate’s husband had once lived, he had a long talk with Kate.
“I’ll do it! I’ll do it or me name’s not Katie Mulrennan!”
WATCHING HIS CHANCE to move unseen, Bostwick ran through the mud and crawled into the wagon, burrowing down amidst the bedding and odds and ends of household furniture. He had been there but a few minutes when he heard a splashing of hoofs and a rattle of trace-chains. Pennock was, as he had expected, hitching grandad’s team to the wagon.
Crouching back of the seat, he waited. Pennock had learned of his moving grandad into Kate’s but had no idea Bostwick was inside the wagon.
It was dark and wet, and the big man was watching his footing as he started to clamber into the wagon. He missed seeing the hand that shot out of the darkness and grabbed the lines from his hand, nor the foot until it smashed into his chest.
Pennock let out a choking yell and grabbed at the leg as he toppled backward into the mud.
Scrambling to the seat, Bostwick slapped the horses with the lines, and the heavy wagon started with a jerk.
Behind him there was an angry shout. Glancing back Bostwick saw the big man lunge after the wagon, then slip and fall facedown in the mud. Then the team was running, and the wagon was out of town on the trail to Squaw Springs.
Jim Bostwick drove for thirty minutes until he came to what he was looking for, an abandoned barn that had stood there since the boom days. He drove over the gravel approach and into the door in the end of the barn. Fortunately, somebody had used the barn during the summer and there was hay in the manger. He unhitched the horses and tied them to the manger, and then going outside, he eliminated what tracks he could find. The rain would do the rest.
When he had finished he went back to town riding one horse and leading the other. He took them to the livery stable, then scouted the boardinghouse, but as Kate had foretold, most of the townspeople were present.
When he entered, Jack Pennock half-started to his feet but Bostwick had a thumb hooked in his belt near his gun, and slowly Pennock sat down again.
“You the one who drove that wagon off?”
“I was. And I was completely within my rights.”
Astonishment replaced anger on Pennock’s face. “What do you mean … rights?”
“You quiet down, Pennock. We’ve got business.” Bostwick glanced at Kate. “Are you ready, judge?”
“Judge?” Pennock’s hands rested flat on the table. He looked like an old bull at bay. “What’s going on here?”
Kate Mulrennan banged the table with a hammer. “Court’s now in session!”
Pennock looked from one to the other. “What kind of tomfoolery is this?” he demanded.
“It means,” Bostwick replied, “that the town council met this afternoon and appointed me the town marshal according to the regulation set forth in the city ordnances of Yellowjacket, which decrees—read it, Katie.”
The aforesaid town council shall meet on the fifth day of January, or as soon thereafter as possible, and shall appoint a judge, a town marshal and town clerk. These officials shall hold office only until the fifth of January following, at which time the council shall again meet and reappoint or replace these officials as they shall see fit.
Bostwick’s eyes never left Pennock. It was the first time the man’s bluff had been called, and he was expecting trouble. Appointed to the office almost three years before, he had run the town as he saw fit and had pocketed the fines.
“That means,” Jim went on, “that you are no longer the town marshal and I am. It also means that for two years you have been acting without authority. As there was no meeting of the town council in that time we will waive that part of it, but we must insist on an accounting of all the fines and monies collected by you.”
“What? You’re a pack of crazy fools!”
“According to regulations you get ten percent of all collected. Now we want an accounting.”
Jack Pennock clutched the edge of the table. Month after month he had bullied these people, fining them as well as strangers, and no man dared deny him. Now this stranger had come to Yellowjacket and in one day his power had crumbled to nothing.
But had it? Need he let it be so? Watching Pennock, Bostwick judged that he had been wary of tackling a tough man who might be a gunfighter, but driven into a corner, Pennock had no choice. It was run or fight.
“I haven’t the money.” Pennock was very cool now. “So you’ll pay hell collecting it.”
“We thought of that, so you have a choice. Pay up or leave town tomorrow by noon.”
“Suppose I decide to pay no attention to this kangaroo court?”
“Then it becomes my job,” Bostwick replied quietly, “as the newly elected town marshal …”
Jack Pennock got to his feet. Bostwick had to hand it to him. When the chips were down Pennock was going to fight for what he had. “You won’t have to come looking for me, Bostwick. I’ll be out there waiting for you.”
Pennock started for the door and Kate called out, “Hold up a minute, Jack! You owe me a dollar for grub. Now pay up, you cheapskate!”
Pennock’s face was livid. He hesitated, then shaking with anger he tossed a dollar on the table and walked out.
“Well, Jim,” Harbridge said, “you said if it came to this that you’d handle it. Now you’ve got it to do.
“He’s a dange
rous man with a gun. Sandy Chase was good, but he wasn’t good enough. I never would’ve had the nerve to go through with this if Kate hadn’t told us you’d face him, if need be.”
“Are you fast?” Grove asked.
“No, I’m not. Probably I’m no faster than any of you, but I’ll be out there and he’d better get me quick or I’ll take him.”
Bostwick disliked to brag, but these men needed to believe. If he failed them they would take the brunt of Pennock’s anger.
When they had trooped out of the room and gone to their homes, Bostwick sat down again, suddenly scared. He looked up to see Ruth watching him.
“I heard what was said. You’ve done this for me … for us, haven’t you?”
Bostwick’s hard features flushed. “Ma’am, I ain’t much, and I’m no braver than most, it’s just that when I see a man like him something gets into me.”
“I wish we had a few more like you!” Kate said.
She gestured to the table. “You set, I’ve some more of that pie.” She looked around at Ruthie. “You, too, you look like you could do with some nourishment.”
When the sun hung over the street, Bostwick stood in a doorway thinking what a damned fool he was. Why, Shorty, who laid no claims to being good with a gun, was better than he was. Yet he had walked into this with his eyes open.
He must make no effort at a fast draw. He was not fast, and he would be a fool to try.
He might have time for one shot only, and he must be sure that shot would kill. Jim Bostwick was a man without illusions. He knew he was going to take some lead, and he had to be prepared for it.
He was a good shot with a pistol, better than most when shooting at targets, only this time the target would be shooting back. He had faced that before and wasn’t looking forward to it. Not at all.
The sun was baking the wetness from the street and from the false-fronted buildings. Somewhere a piano was playing. He stepped into the street.
“Bostwick!”
The call was from behind him! Jack Pennock had been lurking somewhere near the livery stable and had outsmarted him, played him for a sucker.
Jack was standing there, big and rough, a pistol in his hand. And he was smiling at the success of his trick. Jack fired.
Take your time! The words rang in his mind like a bell. He lifted his bone-handled gun and fired just as Jack let go with his second shot. Something slugged Bostwick in the leg as he realized Jack had missed his first shot!
His eyes were on that toothpick on Jack’s watchchain. He squeezed off a shot even as he fell, then he was getting up, bracing himself for another careful shot.
Jack seemed to be weaving, turning his side to him like a man on a dueling field. Bostwick fired from where his gun was, shooting as a man points a finger. This time there was no mistake. Where the toothpick had hung there was a widening stain now, and he fired again, then went to his knees, losing his grip on his gun.
Somewhere a door slammed, and he heard running feet. He reached out for his gun, but his hand closed on nothing. He smelled the warm, wet earth on which his face rested, and he felt somebody touch his shoulder.
“I THINK HE’S waking up,” somebody said, some woman.
He moved then and a bed creaked and when his eyes opened he was looking up at a ceiling and he heard Ruthie saying, “Oh, Katie! He’s awake! He’s awake!”
“Awake and hungry,” he grumbled.
He looked at Ruthie. “How’s your grandad?”
“He died … only a little while after your fight. He said you were a good man.”
“Jack Pennock? Did I—?”
“You hit him four times. He’s been buried these two weeks.”
“Two weeks? You mean I’ve been here two weeks?”
“You have. Two weeks and a day, to be exact.” She took his hand. “Jim? Kate told me that you planned to file on Squaw Springs yourself.”
“Forget it. That will be a good place for you, and as for me, I’m just a forty-dollar-a-month cowhand.”
“We could do it together.”
“Well, you know how folks talk. You being a young girl, and all.”
“What if we were married?” she suggested doubtfully.
“Well,” he admitted cautiously, “that might do it.” He stole a look at her from the corners of his eyes. “Did you ever take a good look at me? Even when I’m shaved—”
“You are shaved, silly!” She laughed at him. “Kate shaved you. She said she always wondered what you looked like under all that brush.”
He lifted a hand. It was true. He had been shaved. “You think you could marry a man like me?”
“Well,” she said, “just to stop the talk—”
West of the Pilot Range
Ward McQueen let the strawberry roan amble placidly down the hillside toward the spring in the cottonwoods. He pulled his battered gray sombrero lower over his eyes and squinted at the meadow.
There were close to three hundred head of white-faced cattle grazing there and a rider on a gray horse was staring up toward him. The man carried a rifle across his saddle, and as McQueen continued to head down the hillside, the rider turned his horse and started quickly forward.
He was a powerfully built man with a thick neck and a shock of untrimmed red hair. His hard, little, blue eyes stared at McQueen. “Who are yuh?” the redhead demanded. “Where yuh goin’?” McQueen brought the roan to a stop. The redhead’s voice angered him and he was about to make a sharp reply when he noticed a movement in the willows along the stream and caught the gleam of a rifle. “I’m just ridin’ through,” he replied quietly. “Why?”
“Which way yuh come from?” The redhead was suspicious. “Lots of rustlers around here.”
McQueen chuckled. “Well, I ain’t one,” he said cheerfully. “I been ridin’ down Arizona way. Thought I’d change my luck by comin’ north.”
“Saddle tramp, eh?” Red grinned a little himself, revealing broken yellow teeth. “Huntin’ a job?”
“Might be.” McQueen looked at the cattle. “Your spread around here?”
“No. We’re drivin’ ’em west. The boss bought ’em down Wyomin’ way. We could use a hand. Forty a month and grub, bonus when we git there.”
“Sounds good,” McQueen admitted. “How far you drivin’?”
“’Bout a hundred miles further.” Red hesitated a little. “Come talk to the boss. We got a couple of riders, but we’ll need another, all right.”
They started down the hill toward the cottonwoods and willows. Ward McQueen glanced thoughtfully at the cattle. They were in good shape. It was unusual to see cattle in such good shape after so long a drive. And the last seventy-five miles of it across one of the worst deserts in the West. Of course, they might have been here several days, and green grass, rest, and water helped a lot.
A TALL MAN in black stepped from the willows as they approached. There was no sign of a rifle, yet Ward was certain it was the same man. Rustlers or Indians would have a hard time closing in on this bunch, he thought.
“Boss,” Red said, “this here’s a saddle tramp from down Arizony way. Huntin’ him a job. I figgered he might be a good hand to have along. This next forty miles or so is Injun country.”
The man stared at McQueen through close-set, black eyes, and one hand lifted to the carefully trimmed mustache.
“My name is Hoyt,” he said sharply. “Iver Hoyt. I do need another hand. Where yuh from?”
“Texas. Been ridin’ south of Santa Fe and over Arizona way.” He took out the makin’s and started to build a cigarette.
Hoyt was a sharp-looking man with a hard, ratlike face. He wore a gun under his Prince Albert coat.
“All right, Red, put him to work.” Hoyt looked up at Red. “Work him on the same basis as the others, understand?”
“Sure,” Red said, grinning. “Oh, sure. The same way.”
Hoyt turned and strode away through the trees toward a faint column of smoke that arose from beyond the willows.
&n
bsp; Red turned. “My name’s Red Naify,” he said. “What do I call you?”
“I’m Ward McQueen. They call me Ward. How’s it for grub?”
“Sure thing.” Red turned his horse through the willows. McQueen followed, frowning thoughtfully.
There was no danger about the cattle drifting. They had just crossed a desert, if Red’s story was true, and there was no grass within miles as green and lush as this in the meadow. And water was scarce. So why had Naify been out there with the cattle close to grub call? And why had Iver Hoyt been down in the trees with a rifle?
It was on the edge of Indian country, he knew. There had been rumors of raids by a band of Piute warriors from the Thousand Spring Valley, north of here. He shrugged. What the devil? He was probably being unduly suspicious about the outfit.
Two riders were sitting over the fire when he approached. One was a squat man with a bald head. The other a slim, pleasant-looking youngster who looked up, grinning.
“That there is ‘Baldy’ Jackson,” Naify said. “He’s cook and nightrider usually. The kid is Bud Fox. Baldy an’ Bud, this is Ward McQueen.”
Baldy’s head came up with a jerk and he almost dropped the frying pan. Naify looked at him in surprise and so did Bud. Baldy looked around slowly, his eyes slanting at Ward, without expression.
“Howdy,” he said, and turned back to his cooking.
Bud Fox brought up an armful of wood and began poking sticks into the fire. He glanced at Baldy curiously, but the cook did not look up again.
When they had finished eating, Hoyt saddled a fresh horse and mounted up. Red Naify got up and sauntered slowly over to the edge of camp, out of hearing distance. The two talked seriously while Bud Fox lay with his head on his saddle, dozing. Baldy picked idly at his teeth, staring into the fire. Once or twice the older man looked up, glancing toward the two standing at the edge of the willows.
He picked up a heavier stick and placed it on the fire.
“You from Lincoln?” he asked, low-voiced. “I knowed of a McQueen, right salty. He rid for John Chisum.”
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 7 Page 39
