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

by Louis L'Amour

  “What’s he doin’ back there?” Webb demanded. “Make him ride up front, Sheriff!”

  Foster smiled. “He can ride where he wants. He don’t make me nervous, Webb. What’s eatin’ you?”

  The town of Pelona for which they were riding faced the wide plains from the mouth of Cottonwood Canyon, and faced them without pretensions. The settlement, dwarfed by the bulk of the mountain behind it, was a supply point for cattlemen, a stage stop, and a source of attraction for cowhands to whom Santa Fe and El Paso were faraway dream cities.

  In Pelona, with its four saloons, livery stable, and five stores, Si Hutch, who owned Hutch’s Emporium, was king.

  He was a little old man, grizzled, with a stubble of beard and a continually cranky mood. Beneath that superficial aspect he was utterly vicious, without an iota of mercy for anything human or animal.

  Gifted in squeezing the last drop of money or labor from those who owed him, he thirsted for wealth with the same lust that others reserved for whiskey or women. Moreover, although few realized it, he was cruel as an Apache and completely depraved. One of the few who realized the depth of his depravity was his strong right hand, Ren Oliver.

  Oliver was an educated man and for the first twenty-five years of his life had lived in the East. Twice, once in New York and again in Philadelphia, he had been guilty of killing. In neither case had it been proved, and in only one case had he been questioned. In both cases he had killed to cover his thieving, but finally he got in too deep and realizing his guilt could be proved, he skipped town.

  In St. Louis he shot a man over a card game. Two months later he knifed a man in New Orleans, then drifted west, acquiring gun skills as he traveled. Since boyhood his career had been a combination of cruelty and dishonesty, but not until he met Si Hutch had he made it pay. Behind his cool, somewhat cynical expression few people saw the killer.

  He was not liked in Pelona. Neither was he disliked. He had killed two men in gun battles since arriving in town, but both seemed to have been fair, standup matches. He was rarely seen with Si Hutch, for despite the small population they had been able to keep their cooperation a secret. Only Neal Webb, another string to Hutch’s bow, understood the connection. One of the factors that aided Hutch in ruling the Pelona area was that his control was exercised without being obvious. Certain of his enemies had died by means unknown to either Ren Oliver or Neal Webb.

  The instrument of these deaths was unknown, and for that reason Si Hutch was doubly feared.

  When Sheriff Foster rode into town with Webb and McQueen, Si Hutch was among the first to know. His eyes tightened with vindictive fury. That damned Webb! Couldn’t he do anything right? His own connection with the crimes well covered, he could afford to sit back and await developments.

  Ward McQueen had been doing some serious thinking on the ride into town. The negotiations between Ruth Kermitt and old Tom Mc-Cracken had been completed almost four months ago. McCracken had stayed on at the Firebox even after the title was transferred and was to have managed it for another six months. His sudden death ended all that.

  Webb had said he owned the ranch by virtue of young Jimmy signing it over to pay a gambling debt. This was unlikely, for Jimmy had surely known of the sale. Neal Webb had made an effort to obtain control of the ranch, and Jimmy McCracken had been killed to prevent his doing anything about it.

  Sheriff Foster seemed like an honest man, but how independent was he? In such towns there were always factions who controlled, and elected officials were often only tools to be used.

  Faced with trickery and double-dealing as well as such violence, what could he do? When Ruth arrived from the Tumbling K in Nevada there would be no doubt that she owned the Firebox and that Jimmy had known of it. That would place the killing of young Jimmy Mc-Cracken at Neal Webb’s door.

  Red Oliver was on the walk in front of the Bat Cave Saloon when they tied up before the sheriff’s office. He had never seen either McQueen or Sartain before but knew them instantly for what they were, gunfighters, and probably good.

  McQueen saw the tall man in the gray suit standing on the boardwalk. As he watched, Oliver turned in at the Emporium. Ward finished tying his roan and went into the sheriff’s office.

  Nothing new developed from the talk in the office of the sheriff, nor in the hearing that followed. Young Jimmy McCracken had been slain by persons unknown after a considerable chase. The evidence seemed to establish that several men had been involved in the chase, some of whom had been killed or wounded by McCracken.

  Ward McQueen gave his own evidence and listened as the others told what they knew or what tracks seemed to indicate. As he listened he heard whispering behind him, and he was well aware that talk was going around. After all, he and the Tumbling K riders were strangers. What talk he could overhear was suspicion of his whole outfit.

  Neal Webb had a bunch of tough men around him and he was belligerent. When telling what he knew he did all he could to throw suspicion on the Tumbling K. However, from what he could gather, all of Webb’s riders were present and accounted for.

  After the inquest McQueen found himself standing beside the sheriff. “What kind of a country is this, Sheriff? Do you have much trouble?”

  “Less than you’d expect. Webb’s outfit is the biggest, but his boys don’t come in often. When they want to have a blowout they ride down to Alma. They do some drinkin’ now an’ again but they don’t r’ar up lookin’ for trouble.”

  “Many small outfits?”

  “Dozen or so. The Firebox will be the largest if you run cows on all of it.” Foster studied him. “Do you know the range limits of the Firebox?”

  “We figure to run stock from the Apache to Rip-Roaring Mesa and Crosby Creek, south to Dillon Mountain and up to a line due east from there to the Apache.”

  “That’s a big piece of country but it is all Firebox range. There are a few nesters squatted in Bear Canyon, and they look like a tough outfit, but they’ve given me no trouble.”

  “Miss Kermitt holds deeds on twelve pieces of land,” Ward explained. “Those twelve pieces control most of the water on that range, and most of the easy passes. We want no trouble, but we’ll run cattle on range we’re entitled to.”

  “That’s fair enough. Watch your step around Bear Canyon. Those boys are a mean lot.”

  Kim Sartain was somewhere around town but McQueen was not worried. The gunslinging segundo of the Tumbling K was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, and in the meanwhile Ward had business of his own to take care of. He glanced up and down the street, studying the stores. Two of them appeared better stocked than the others. One was Hutch’s Emporium, a large store apparently stocked to the doors with everything a rancher could want. The other stores were smaller but were freshly painted and looked neat.

  McQueen walked along to the Emporium. A small man with a graying beard looked up at him as he came to the counter. It was an old-fashioned counter, curved inward on the front to accommodate women shoppers who wore hoopskirts.

  “Howdy there! Stranger in town?”

  “Tumbling K. We’ve taken over the Firebox, and we’ll need supplies.”

  Hutch nodded agreeably. “Glad to help! The Firebox, hey? Had a ruckus out there, I hear.”

  “Nothin’ much.” Ward walked along, studying the goods on the shelves and stacked on tables. He was also curious about the man behind the counter. He seemed genial enough, but his eyes were steel bright and glassy. He was quick-moving and obviously energetic.

  “Troublin’ place, the Firebox. Old McCracken seemed to make it pay but nobody else ever done it. You reckon you’ll stay?”

  “We’ll stay.”

  McQueen ordered swiftly and surely, but not all they would need. There were other stores in town, and he preferred to test the water before he got in too deep. The Firebox would need to spend a lot of money locally and he wanted to scatter it around. Hutch made no comment until he ordered a quantity of .44-caliber ammunition.

  “That�
�s a lot of shootin’. You expectin’ a war?”

  “War? Nothing like that, but we’re used to wars. Jimmy McCracken was killed for some reason by some right vicious folks. If they come back we wouldn’t want them to feel unwelcome.”

  The door opened and Neal Webb walked in. He strode swiftly to the counter and was about to speak when he recognized McQueen. He gulped back his words, whatever they might have been.

  “Howdy. Reckon you got off pretty easy.”

  McQueen took his time about replying. “Webb, the Tumblin’ K is in this country to stay. You might as well get used to us and accept the situation. Then we can have peace between us and get on with raising and marketing cattle. We want no trouble, but we’re ready if it comes.

  “We did business with McCracken and I couldn’t have found a finer man. His son seemed cut from the same pattern.

  “They didn’t belong to my outfit, so I’m droppin’ this right here. If it had been one of my men I’d backtrail the killers until I found where they came from. Then I’d hunt their boss and I’d stay with him until he was hanged, which is what he deserves.”

  Behind McQueen’s back Hutch gestured, and the hot remarks Webb might have made were stifled. Puzzled, McQueen noticed the change and the sudden shift of Webb’s eyes. Finishing his order he stepped into the street.

  As he left a gray-haired, impatient-seeming man brushed by him. “Neal,” he burst out, “where’s that no-account Bemis? He was due over to my place with that horse he borried. I need that paint the worst way!”

  “Forget it,” Webb said. “I’ll see he gets back to you.”

  “But I want to see Bemis! He owes me money!”

  Ward McQueen let the door close behind him and glanced across the street. A girl with red-gold hair was sweeping the boardwalk there. She made a pretty picture and he crossed the street.

  As he stepped onto the walk, she glanced up. Her expression changed as she saw him. Her glance was the swiftly measuring one of a pretty girl who sees a stranger, attractive and possibly unmarried. She smiled.

  “You must be one of that new outfit the town’s talking about. The Tumbling K, isn’t it?”

  “It is.” He shoved his hat back on his head. Kim should see this girl, he thought. She’s lovely. “I’m the foreman.”

  She glanced across the street toward Hutch’s store. “Started buying from Hutch?”

  “I’m new here so I thought I’d scatter my business until I find out where I get the best service.” He smiled. “I’ll want to order a few things.”

  A big man was coming up the walk, a very big man, and Ward McQueen sensed trouble in the man’s purposeful stride. His worn boots were run down at the heels and his faded shirt was open halfway down his chest for lack of buttons. His ponderous fists swung at the ends of powerfully muscled arms, and his eyes darkened savagely as he saw Ward McQueen.

  “Watch yourself!” the girl warned. “That’s Flagg Warneke!”

  The big man towered above McQueen. When he came to a stop in front of Ward his chin was on a level with Ward’s eyebrows and he seemed as wide as a barn door.

  “Are you McQueen? Well, I’m Flagg Warneke, from Bear Canyon! I hear you aim to run us nesters off your range! Is that right?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet,” Ward replied. “When I do I’ll come to see you.”

  “Oh! You haven’t made up your mind yet? Well, see that you don’t! And stay away from Bear Canyon! That place belongs to us, an’ if you come huntin’ trouble, you’ll get it!”

  Coolly, Ward McQueen turned his back on the giant. “Why not show me what stock you have?” he suggested to the girl. “I—”

  A huge hand clamped on his shoulder and spun him around. “When I talk to you, face me!” Warneke roared.

  As the big hand spun him around Ward McQueen threw a roundhouse right to the chin that knocked the big man floundering against the post of the overhang. Instantly, Ward moved in, driving a wicked right to the body and then swinging both hands to the head.

  The man went to his knees and McQueen stepped back. Then, as if realizing for the first time that he had been struck, Warneke came off the walk with a lunge. He swung his right but Ward went inside, punching with both hands. The big man soaked up punishment like a sponge takes water, and he came back, punching with remarkable speed for such a big man.

  A blow caught McQueen on the jaw and he crashed against the side of the store, his head ringing. Warneke followed up on the punch, but he was too eager for the kill and missed.

  A crowd had gathered and the air was filled with shouted encouragement to one or the other. Ward’s shirt was torn and when he stepped back to let Warneke get up again his breath was coming in great gasps. The sheer power and strength of the big man was amazing. He had never hit a man so hard and had him still coming.

  McQueen, no stranger to rough-and-tumble fighting, moved in, circling a little. Warneke, cautious now, was aware he was in a fight. Before, his battles had always ended quickly; this was different. McQueen stabbed a left to the mouth, feinted, and did it again. He feinted again, but this time he whipped a looping uppercut to the body that made Warneke’s mouth fall open. The big man swung a ponderous blow that fell short and McQueen circled him warily. The speed was gone from the Bear Canyon man now, and McQueen only sought a quick way to end it.

  McQueen, oblivious to the crowd, moved in warily. Warneke, hurt though he was, was as dangerous as a cornered grizzly. McQueen’s greatest advantage had been that Warneke had been used to quick victories and had not expected anything like what had happened. Also, McQueen had landed the first blow and followed it up before the bigger man could get set. He stalked him now, and then feinted suddenly and threw a high hard one to the chin. Warneke was coming in when the blow landed. For an instant he stiffened, and then fell forward to the walk and lay still.

  McQueen stepped back to the wall and let his eyes sweep the faces of the crowd. For the first time he saw Sartain standing in front of the store, his thumbs hooked in his belt, watching the people gathered about.

  Nearest the porch was a tall man in a gray suit, a man he had observed before when he first rode into town.

  “That was quite a scrap,” said the man in gray. “My congratulations. If there is ever anything I can do, just come to me. My name is Ren Oliver.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ward McQueen picked up his fallen hat and then tentatively he worked his fingers. Nothing was broken but his hands were stiff and sore from the pounding. He gave Sartain a half smile. “Looks like we’ve picked a tough job. That was a Bear Canyon nester!”

  “Yeah.” Kim gave him a wry look. “Wonder who put him up to it?”

  “You think it was planned?”

  “Think about it. You’ve made no decision on Bear Canyon. You ain’t even seen the place or its people, but he had the idea you were going to run them off. And how did he know where you were and who you were? I think somebody pointed you out.”

  “That’s only if somebody has it in for him, or for us.”

  Sartain’s smile was cynical. “You don’t think they have? You should have seen how green Webb turned when you said you had title to the Firebox. If the sheriff hadn’t been there he’d have tried to kill you.

  “And why was the sheriff there? That’s another thing we’d better find out.”

  McQueen nodded. “You’re right, Kim. While you’re around, keep your eyes and ears open for a man named Bemis. You won’t see him, I think, but find out what you can about him.”

  “Bemis? What do you know about him?”

  “Darned little.” McQueen touched his cheek with gentle fingers where a large red, raw spot had resulted from Warneke’s fist. “Only he ain’t around, and he should be.”

  Sartain walked off down the street and the crowd drifted slowly away, reluctant to leave the scene. McQueen hitched his guns into place and straightened his clothes. He glanced around and saw a sign, Clarity’s Store.

  The girl had come back into
her doorway, and he glanced at her. “Are you Clarity?”

  “I am. The first name is Sharon. Did they call you McQueen?”

  “They did. And the first name is Ward.”

  He stepped into the store, anxious to get away from the curious eyes. The store was more sparsely stocked than Hutch’s much larger store, but the stock gave evidence of careful selection and a discriminating taste. There were many things a western store did not normally stock.

  “I have a washbasin,” she suggested. “I think you’d better take a look at yourself in a mirror.”

  “I will,” he said, grinning a little, “but I’d rather not.” He glanced around again. “Do you stock shirts by any chance? Man-size shirts?”

  She looked at him critically. “I do, and I believe I have one that would fit you.”

  She indicated the door to the washbasin and then went among the stacks of goods on the shelves behind the counter.

  A glance in the mirror and he saw what she meant. His face was battered and bloody, his hair mussed. He could do little about the battered but the blood he could wash away, and he did so. The back door opened on a small area surrounded by a high fence. It was shaded by several old elms and a cottonwood or two, and in the less shaded part there were flowers. He washed his face, holding compresses on his swollen cheekbones and lip. Then he combed his hair.

  Sharon Clarity came with a shirt. It was a dark blue shirt with two pockets. He stripped off the rags of his other shirt and donned the new one and dusted off his hat.

  She gave him a quick look and a smile when he emerged, saying, “It’s an improvement, anyway.” She folded some other shirts and returned them to the shelves.

  He paid for the shirt she had provided, and she said, “You know what you’ve done, don’t you? You’ve whipped the toughest man in Bear Canyon. Whipped him in a standup fight. Nobody has ever done that, and nobody has even come close. Nobody has even tried for a long time.”