The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 7

by Louis L'Amour

  Now, however, the number of cattle was running far below four thousand, and McQueen could not understand it. He still firmly believed that Dick Gerber’s count was honest, and knowing the old man, he knew that Gerber’s methods were not slipshod.

  “The tally’s fallin’ short, ain’t it?” Sartain asked. He knew McQueen was worried. “Do you suppose Yost would know anything about that?”

  “How could he? Our own boys are handlin’ this roundup. Yost hasn’t been around—just my riders and the few of Gerber’s I kept on to handle the branding.”

  Buying as he had, without waiting for the completed tally, he had saved money, for Gerber had insisted that the deal be made before the roundup. The difference was considerable. Now it could take all their profit away.

  The ranch in Nevada had been making money steadily, and it had been Ruth Kermitt’s idea to stock it with more cattle. They could, she suggested, pick up a herd in Texas and drift it north, letting it feed as it moved.

  McQueen liked the plan. With luck they could sell enough cattle at the railheads in Kansas or Nebraska to pay expenses, and possibly, with luck, even pay for the herd.

  Buying cattle on the range could often prove very profitable, for in many cases the completed tally would run higher than the estimate. McQueen, knowing Gerber, had little hope of exceeding the tally.

  Bud Fox and “Baldy” Jackson, the two hands that had come south with them, were drifting their way. “Brought in about thirty head,” Bud volunteered as they drew near. “Any unbranded stock?”

  “Nope. Gerber must have figured wrong on that, because most of the stuff we’re findin’ has to be vented.”

  “Where is that KT rep?” Ward asked. He started to build a smoke, studying the cattle thoughtfully.

  “Buff Colker?” Jackson rubbed a hand over his bald pate. “He’s off to Sotol, as always. Said he had to mail a letter.”

  Sartain chuckled. “Shucks, Baldy! You’re just jealous because you can’t go in, too.”

  “Jealous?” Baldy snorted. “Of that Kansas City cowhand?”

  “Buff sure ain’t around much,” Bud Fox agreed. “He takes his reppin’ job easy.”

  “If those outfits he’s workin’ for can stand it, we can,” McQueen said. “How’s it look back in the breaks, Bud?”

  “Cleaned out, almost. There’s a few steers around that we might pick up, but most of them are wild as deer.”

  “Forget them,” Ward advised, “they aren’t worth it. We could waste a month combing that chaparral an’ never get them out.”

  Kim Sartain spoke thoughtfully. “You know that Colker hombre sure puzzles me. He says he goes to Sotol, but remember that time you sent me in after some smokin’ for the boys? Well, Buff was supposed to be there, too, but I didn’t see him.”

  “Maybe you just didn’t run into him,” Bud said.

  “In Sotol?” Sartain stared at Fox with utmost disgust. “You couldn’t hide a pack rat in that place! You could cover the whole durned town under a Mexican’s saddle blanket!”

  Ward McQueen reined in and lounged loosely in the saddle, staring unhappily at the herd. Tonight he would ride in and have a talk with Ruth. He would have to tell her that his deal had been a poor one. Scowling, he tried to think if there was any spot they had somehow missed. Still, with Perkins, Gallatin, Jensen, and Lopez working for them, all men who knew this range, there was small chance of overlooking anything.

  When the hands finished bunching the herd, Kim drifted his way again. “Riding into Sotol, boss?”

  McQueen slanted his eyes at the casual young rider. “Yeah, what about it?”

  “Nothin’.” Kim shrugged carelessly. “Figured you might let me ride along. Sort of wash some of the dust out of my throat!”

  Ward grinned. Few men cared so little for drinking as Kim Sartain. The rider was a top hand, but he liked a good fight, and Ward knew he was thinking of Yost.

  “I don’t want any trouble, Kim. You know how Miss Kermitt is.”

  Sartain turned his horse, riding toward the ranch house beside McQueen. “Boss, when are you and Miss Kermitt tyin’ the knot?”

  Ward looked around. “We don’t plan on gettin’ married until we get back to Nevada.” He shrugged. “Maybe after she hears what a bad deal I made for her, she won’t want to.”

  “Boss,” Kim said hesitantly, “did you ever figure that maybe this Gerber lied? He wouldn’t swear there was over three thousand.”

  Ward spat and swung the horse up to the corral. “Did you ever see the time you could swear to how many head you had on a ranch? I never could.”

  Sartain got down and began stripping the saddle from his sorrel. “I could guess within a thousand head,” he replied.

  Ward McQueen stopped a moment and frowned uneasily. Maybe he had been wrong in trusting Gerber. After all, the old man was notoriously tight-fisted, and he might not be above dishonesty with a man who came from so far away, and was on his way back. The thought rankled McQueen.

  RUTH KERMITT was waiting for him on the steps of the hotel when he cantered up the street and swung down. She was smiling as he joined her.

  “After you talk to me,” he said, “you may not look so happy. Have you eaten?”

  “Yes, but I want some more coffee with you.”

  She was a tall girl, her dark hair gathered in a loose knot at the nape of her neck. Her wide, blue eyes examined his face as he lifted his cup. She could see the lines of weariness etched there, the worry in his eyes.

  “What’s wrong, Ward?” she asked.

  He sighed. “We bought four thousand head accordin’ to Gerber’s tally book. We won’t get more than three thousand.”

  Her lips tightened. “Oh! I was afraid of something like that.”

  “Me, I’d have sworn by Gerber.”

  The door to the room smashed back suddenly, and Ward looked around. Five men had come into the cafe. In the lead, his blue eyes flashing from his brown, wind-burned face, his untrimmed white hair falling to his shoulders, was Old Dick Gerber. Behind him were four hard-faced riders.

  Gerber sighted Ward and crossed the room swiftly.

  “McQueen!” Gerber’s voice rang in the narrow room. “It’s come to my ears that you say I lied about my tally on that herd! Did you call me a liar?”

  As Ward McQueen carefully got to his feet, the door opened quietly behind him.

  “I’m with you, boss.” It was Kim Sartain’s voice. “No, Dick, I didn’t say you lied.”

  “The great McQueen, takin’ water!” sneered one of the riders. A big man known as Black.

  Ward’s eyes shifted to Black. “I’m not takin’ water. It’s just I’ve known Dick Gerber a lot longer than I expect to know you.”

  His eyes turned to Gerber’s. “Dick, you sold me four thousand head of cattle according to your tally. I took your word and the word of your book. I worked for you, an’ that tally book of yours was somethin’ to swear by. I had no doubts.”

  Gerber stared at him, still resentful. “What’s the fuss about, then?” he demanded.

  “Because we’ve had our roundup, an’ we’ve only netted three thousand head.”

  “Three thousand?” Gerber stared. “Ward, you’re crookin’ me! If you only found three thousand head, you’ve snuck some off some-wheres.” His mouth tightened. “Ah? Maybe that’s it? Maybe you figure to get me on that guarantee! Well, I won’t stand for it, Ward!”

  Ward’s face flushed. “All I want is a square deal.”

  “He’s askin’ for trouble, Gerber,” Black said. “Let me have him.”

  “Listen, big ears,” Sartain took a step into the room, “if you’re so anxious to throw iron, suppose you come out in the street an’ throw it with me?”

  “Kim!” Ward barked. “Stop it!” Ward wheeled on Black. “And you shut up! Gerber, get that man out of here, and get him out fast! If we start shootin’ in this room, nobody will get out alive. And we’ve a woman here, remember that!”

  Dick Gerber’s ang
er left him. Realization broke over him that what Ward said was true. Ruth Kermitt was there. To throw a gun when a woman was present was out of reason.

  “Quiet down!” Gerber snapped. “You, Black, mind what I say.” He turned back to McQueen. “I’m sorry, Ward. Maybe I went off half-cocked, but I sure ain’t the man to bunco anybody. I figure you of all people knew that.”

  “Mr. Gerber,” Ruth said quietly, “just before you came in Ward was saying that even though there was a problem he would swear by you.”

  The old man looked around. “I guess I’m a fool,” he said, and dropped into a chair. “I never figured on makin’ a shootin’ match of it, Ward. I was just too mad to think.”

  “Forget it and let’s have a talk.” Ward glanced at Sartain. “Kim, we don’t want any trouble.”

  “That goes for you boys, too,” Gerber told his men. “Ward an’ me’ll find some peaceful way to handle this.”

  As the hands trooped out, the door pushed open and into the room swaggered a big man, broad shouldered and blond. He was nattily dressed in black and he smiled when he saw Ruth.

  “Oh, Miss Kermitt! I was looking for you. They told me in the office that you had come in here with one of the hands. Are you ready now?”

  Ward McQueen looked around, astonished. The man was Buff Colker, the rep for the KT outfit, but he had never looked like this on the range. Then, as Colker’s meaning swept over him, his face flushed and he glanced around at Ruth.

  “Why, yes, Mr. Colker, just one minute.” She turned quickly to Ward and put her hand on his. “I wasn’t sure that you’d be in tonight,” she said, “and Mr. Colker asked if he might call. Do you mind?”

  For a moment Ward McQueen sat still, resentment burning within him. He had a half notion to say that he certainly did mind. Then he shrugged it off.

  “No,” he said, “I’ve got to talk with Gerber, anyway.”

  Yet as she arose and walked with Buff Colker into the other room, he glared after them. “Make a nice-lookin’ couple,” Gerber suggested thoughtfully. “She ain’t married, is she?”

  “We came here to talk about cattle.” McQueen’s voice had a faint rasp.

  “Sure,” Gerber agreed. He pulled his tally book from his pocket. “Got money, that young Colker has. I often wonder why he works for the KT, but maybe he figures to go into the cattle business.”

  He put on his glasses and peered at the book. “Now let’s see: there were a couple of hundred head in Seminole Canyon. Did you get those out?”

  TWO HOURS LATER Ward McQueen stalked into the saloon, irritated and unhappy. Despite their discussion and the careful checking of the record Gerber had kept, there was no accounting for the missing cattle. Yet a thousand head of cattle cannot just vanish, nor can they be hidden with ease.

  Sartain was sitting alone at a card table idly riffling a deck of cards. He had his flat-brimmed gray hat shoved back on his head and was watching Black like a cat. The big gunman looked around when Ward came in, and watched as he walked over and dropped into a chair with Kim.

  Sartain riffled the cards through his fingers and, without looking up, commented, “That Black has money. He buys drinks pretty free for a forty-dollar cowhand.”

  He has money. The words flitted through McQueen’s mind, and then were lost as the door shoved open and Ernie Yost came in, accompanied by Villani and Taylor.

  Taylor averted his eyes hastily. One of the three, McQueen reflected, was content to let well enough alone. Watching them, Ward was struck by the fact that Yost, staring straight across the bar, was speaking out of the corner of his mouth. The man beside him was Black.

  Black’s eagerness for trouble and a few words exchanged with Yost lingered in Ward’s brain. What was between those two? Was Black tied in with Yost? What was going on around here?

  “Let’s leave, Kim. We’ve got a hard day tomorrow.”

  Mounting, they turned down the trail toward the ranch, but as he glanced back, Ward saw Ruth saying good night to Colker on the steps of the hotel. “He’s got money.” That was what Gerber had said of Colker. It was also what Sartain had said of Black. Could there be a tie-up there? Did their money come from the same source? Or was jealousy leading him down a blind alley?

  What was the source of Black’s money? The man had the earmarks of an owlhoot.

  “Glad you got me out of there,” Kim said, “I reckon I’m sleepier’n I thought.”

  Sleepier was right. Sleep—er.

  Ward’s dark mood was gone in a flash. He jerked around in the saddle. “Kim, have you been over to that herd of cattle we’ve cut for the other brands?”

  Kim looked up, half awake. “No, why should I? We’re through with them.”

  There must be at least two or three thousand head of KT, Broken Arrow, and Running M cattle in that herd, McQueen thought. That was a big herd, a very big herd.

  IT WAS ALMOST NOON the next day when he rode down to the roundup crew. McQueen had been thinking and checking. Sartain was sitting on a small gray horse, and Jackson was nearby. They had just knocked off for a brief rest.

  Perkins and Lopez were sitting on the ground while Gallatin and Jensen were just riding up. Ward dropped from his horse and walked up to Lopez.

  “Lopez, what horse did you ride yesterday?” Lopez hesitated. “Bay pony, señor.”

  “A bay?” Baldy looked around. “You must be forgetful. You rode that blaze-faced black with the broken hind hoof.” The Mexican looked at him, then got to his feet, and he suddenly looked sick.

  “That’s right, Lopez.” McQueen’s thumbs were tucked in his belt, and around him the other riders were silent. “Now tell me what you were doing moving cattle at midnight.”

  “I, señor?” Lopez’s eyes shifted right and left. “I was moving no cattle. I was in my bunk, asleep.”

  “A lie!” Ward’s tone was brutal and he moved a step nearer. “You took that black horse out again, and you an’ somebody else cut some cattle from the unbranded herd and moved them over into those mixed brands!”

  “Sleeperin’, by golly!” Baldy slapped his leg. “Sleeperin’! Why didn’t I figure that? An’ nobody ever checks that herd of mixed brands. After we’re finished here, they’ll just be left to drift back on the range from that long valley where you’re holdin’ ’em.”

  “And then these rannies could move in an’ brand the unbranded stock for themselves. Nice business.” Bud Fox dropped a hand to his six-shooter. “Do we down him, boss?”

  “Not if he talks.” Ward walked up to the Mexican, whose face was a sickly yellow now. “Lopez, who’s bossin’ this show? Tell me an’ you can go free.”

  “Let me have a hand at him!” Gallatin shoved forward, his face grim and his eyes narrow. “I’ll fix him for you!”

  “Keep out of this!” Ward snapped. “I’ll talk to you, later! I’ve a good notion you’re the other one in this mess!”

  Gallatin sprang back, his face suddenly wolfish. “Oh, you think so, do you? Well, by—” His hand swept down for his gun.

  “Stop!” Ward yelled. “Drop it or I’ll kill you!”

  Gallatin was crouching and his gun kept lifting. “Drop, nothin’!”

  Ward palmed his six-gun in a flashing movement and flame stabbed from the black puzzle. His own gun coming up too slow, Gallatin caught the lead slugs in the stomach. He gulped, then staggered slowly back, his eyes glazing, the gun slipping from nerveless fingers.

  HOOVES CLATTERED and a shout went up. McQueen whirled in time to see Lopez streaking away on the horse the Mexican had just freshly saddled. Ward’s gun came up, but the rustler was in a direct line with two men on the far side of the herd, and he dared not fire. “Gone!” He swore. “He got plumb away.”

  Baldy Jackson reached for his bridle reins. “Boss, we’d better get at that mixed herd. Now they’ll probably move in an’ try to rustle the works. We’d better start cuttin’ her.”

  “We’re not in on any deal with Gally or the Mex,” Jensen said. “You can ask Dick
Gerber. I rode for him four years.”

  Ward glanced around at them. “Either of you know their friends? Who did they see in Sotol?”

  Jensen hesitated. “Well, I reckon that Black who still rides for Gerber was the only one. They were pretty thick when they both rode for this spread. And then Villani. He worked for Gerber for a while, then left him after some trouble over a bridle, and he went to hangin’ out with Ernie Yost.”

  “That fits.” Sartain nodded. “They all run together. The same brand wears well on them. Let’s go coyote huntin’, boss.”

  Ward McQueen hesitated. That was one thing, but the cattle came first. He must at all costs protect Ruth’s cattle. “No, we’d better start workin’ that mixed herd an’ cuttin’ our unbranded stock out of it.”

  “Boss, that Mex didn’t head for Sotol,” Bud suggested. “He took out for the mountains an’ I’ve a good idea he’s more set on gettin’ safe away than tellin’ Yost what happened here. Why don’t we lay low an’ check that herd today?”

  “All right.” Jensen was facing Ward, and he motioned to the body of Gallatin. “Plant him over by those trees, will you? Before anybody sees him. And I don’t want it mentioned all day, you hear? Not in front of anybody!”

  Sartain crooked a leg around his saddle horn. “Boss, I reckon Buff Colker will be out here soon.”

  “I said anybody.” Ward turned to Bud. “I like your idea. We’ll start cutting the mixed herd again tomorrow. Today we’ll keep on with the branding, and tonight,” he glanced at Baldy, then at Kim, “tonight we’ll stand guard by that unbranded herd. If anybody starts to move those cattle we’ll be ready for them.”

  The day drew on, hot and dusty. There was no breeze, and Ward nervously glanced at the sky from time to time. It felt like a storm was building up.

  A cloud of dust hung over the corral where the branding was done, and the hands kept working up new bunches of cattle from the herd of the unbranded. Sartain was handling a rope, and Baldy was working with a branding iron. Buff Colker had arrived and sat his paint horse near the corral.