Twin Guns

by Wick Evans

  "Hold it, Street; I'm buying in this," said the cold voice, and although Kirby was not a coward, he knew an instant's fleeting fear as he met the eyes of a killer… a man who sold his gun for the sheer love of killing.

  "You get odds, mister. I'm givin' you first move…" The cold monotone stopped in a gasp as the barrel of a .45 descended upon his head and he crumpled to the floor.

  Sheriff Lon Peters straddled the fallen man and whisked the two guns from their holsters. He tossed them on the bar. "Never did like a hired gunman," he said softly. "Always wanted to whack one." He gave a tired sigh. "Knew things were too danged quiet. Always ends in trouble." He turned his stony gray regard on the second puncher who had come with Bill into the saloon. "You, Pete, get your boss outa here to the doc 'fore he bleeds to death. Someone give me a hand with this gunslick. He needs to cool off in a nice quiet cell." With the help of one of the onlookers, they dragged the gunman to his feet and followed Pete and Bill to the door. At the door, he paused.

  "Always did want to jug me a danged gunhawk," he murmured. "Kirby, if you stay in town, leave your gun at my office, will you?"

  Kirby came back to reality with a start. "No worry there, Lon. I'm pulling out for Wagon. And thanks for handling that fellow for me."

  The sheriff sighed. "Never did like hired killers. Be glad to run this one outa the country come sunup, maybe without breakfast. Wait'll the deputies hear I jugged me a killer." He dragged his victim through the batwings.

  Kirby shrugged into his jacket, taking in the babble of voices that broke loose as the play for which they had been waiting came to an end. He walked to the bar.

  "They tell me whiskey is good for the nerves," he told Joe.

  "Yeah," was the reply. The worried frown was starting to fade beneath the familiar grin. "So I've heard, Kirby." Joe reached beneath the bar for a dusty bottle. "Private stock… on the house, Kirby."

  The whiskey made a warm glow in his middle as Kirby stepped out on the board sidewalk in front of the Nugget. The early evening chill had sharpened to a keen bite as a rising wind blew directly off peaks covered with the season's first snow. Swift scud flew before the wind, and he felt the taste of moisture on his tongue.

  Winter, thought Kirby, shrugging his shoulders more comfortably into the brush jacket. What's it good for except dead cows and hard work? He started for his claybank gelding tied at the far end of the hitchrack. Folks were ready for the big show; he smiled faintly. Not a space left in front of the Nugget.

  His heels thumped hollowly on loose boards, muffled by wind and moisture, as he went past the bank and post office. He paused, his attention caught by the yellow glow from the doctor's office. He ducked under the railing. The gelding pricked up his ears and stamped as he recognized his rider. Kirby had the tie rope in his hands, and was jerking at the knot, when a soft voice stopped him.

  "Wait a minute, Kirby." Jennifer Bryant moved from the shadows of the bank door.

  "Jen! I didn't see you there." His voice was concerned. "Is something wrong? What are you doing out alone?"

  "I had to see you. I've been waiting forever."

  "Then you knew what was going on in the Nugget?"

  Her voice held scorn. "Every gossip in Streeter has been chewing on it all day. It's a wonder Joe didn't sell tickets."

  He grinned wryly. Jerking loose the tie rope, he said, "Better than a minstrel show. Reckon you can't blame folks much. There's little excitement in Streeter. Come on; I'll walk you home."

  They went in silence, her hand warm beneath his arm, the gelding crowding their heels. They stopped before the white gate of the little cottage Ma and Muddy had given her as a present when she had graduated from the Teacher's Seminary.

  "Was Bill hurt bad?" she finally asked. "I saw them take him into Doc Williams' office."

  He shook his head. "Just winged, Jen, through the arm. Glad I hit where I aimed. Wouldn't be very happy now if I'd killed him."

  She shuddered. "Did I have anything to do with it?"

  Kirby had never been untruthful with this slender, quiet-voiced girl. He couldn't see her face distinctly in the dark, but every feature was as clear as if she had been standing in bright sunlight.

  "Your name was mentioned," he admitted. "Bill should have known better."

  "Then I was the cause of gunplay." Her voice sounded infinitely tired. "That's what I had to know." He could feel her withdraw into herself as she had done when they were kids. When she spoke again, her voice was so low that Kirby had to bend his head to hear what she was saying before the wind whipped the words away.

  "Kirby, I've decided to leave Streeter. I'm going away before things get any worse."

  His voice was shocked. "You can't be serious. I can't let you…"

  She interrupted, "You can't stop me, any more than you can stop this thing between you and Bill. But I don't have to be a part of it. I've talked to Mr. Burch at the bank, and he said he would help me get a teaching job in Galeyville. That's far enough away…" Her voice died out.

  He was silent before the finality in her voice. He could imagine the determined set to her square little chin, the serious expression in her gray eyes. He took the only approach possible, knowing that no plea he could make for himself would alter her decision.

  "Jen, listen. Your school is about ready to start. A lot of kids have already come in to board for the winter. What about them? Where could Streeter get another teacher this late if at all?" She stirred in the darkness as she was assailed by the logic of his words.

  "Stay until spring. By then, if things haven't changed, I won't try to stop you. In the meantime your kids won't be without a teacher." He paused and thought a moment. "I think I can promise you there'll be no more trouble… at least concerning you. I'll be plenty busy at Wagon. Think about it, Jen. Don't make a decision tonight… you're too close to what happened. And believe me, you were only a small part of it." He stopped lest his words undo the good his plea for her school had done.

  Her answer was a long time coming. "Ma and Muddy would be hurt if I left Streeter without a teacher. They were real proud of the school. I hope I'm not doing wrong, but I'll stay until spring. But you've got to promise me something, and Bill will have to make the same promise. Don't either of you come to see me, even talk to me on the street. I won't have blood on my hands… yours or Bill's."

  "That's a mighty tough condition," he told her. "Going to make this a mighty long winter. But if that's the way you want it—" He sighed. "Jen, I hope you know I planned to ask you to come back to Wagon to live this winter, and for the rest of your life and mine…"

  She interrupted with a sob in her voice. "Don't say any more… please. Just leave things as they are."

  Silently he turned to his horse. As his foot sought the stirrup, her hands caught his shoulder and turned him around.

  "This will have to last all winter," she said, and raised her face for his kiss. Hungrily he tried to bury her deeper in his arms, but she tore herself from his grasp. Without a word she fled into the house.

  "Goodbye, Jen," he said to the empty blackness.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Kirby was as wet as a drowned sage hen and chilled to the bone when he rode into Wagon that night. His young hostler, Miguel, had been watching the poker game in the bunkhouse, and when he heard Kirby ride in came to take the horse.

  "I'll rub him down, Boss. You better get a rubdown, too. This is a bad night to be out."

  Kirby agreed as he sloshed to the house and entered by the kitchen door. A pot of coffee simmered on the big range, and he drank a cup, standing in his underwear after he stripped and spread out his clothes to dry. He padded down the hall to his room, wincing when his bare feet hit the cold polished boards. His room was cold, too, a sticky wet cold. Wish Manuel had built a fire, he thought. Teeth beginning to chatter, he got an extra blanket and crawled into bed to get warm.

  For a long time he lay quietly, his thoughts as cold as his body. The taste of a bad night was heavy in his mo
uth. I wish I'd never gone to town, he thought, as he listened to the patter of rain on the roof, the sound of water pouring through the spout into the big rain barrel beneath the window. Ma had said there was nothing like rain water to wash her hair, he remembered. Ma and Jen used to make hair washing day something of a ceremony. He could see them now, sitting in the sun, gray hair and red brown, making woman medicine. Warm at last, he was nearly asleep, despite his worry, when he realized that the sound of rain had stopped. Maybe I can't read weather signs, he thought. I would have sworn we were in for a two-day rain. Uneasy, he threw back the blankets and went to the window.

  The lights of the bunkhouse across the big yard were nearly blotted out by great wet flakes of snow. What he could see of the ground and bunkhouse roof were already white. Winter had come to Wagon.

  Hope this doesn't turn into an early blizzard, he thought. Doubt very much if anyone is ready for a howler this early. He shivered and returned to the warmth of his bed.

  The sound of the triangle ringing in front of the cookhouse awakened him next morning, bringing him reluctantly from troubled sleep… from dreams that even now seemed almost real. He had dreamed of talking to Muddy about the weather… had fished with Bill at the big bend in the Clear, had once again held Jen in his arms. He tried to sleep again to shut out the misery. Failing, he went to the window and looked out into a day as gray and dismal as his thoughts. Sometime during the night the snow had stopped, but ground and buildings held nearly an inch of white stuff. Low, puffy clouds looked as if they might open and spill their contents again at any moment. Thank goodness there's no wind, he thought. He watched smoke rising straight up from the bunkhouse chimney.

  Taking clean clothes from the closet he hurried to the warmth of the kitchen. Maria, cook and housekeeper since Wagon was started, turned golden brown pancakes in an iron skillet. He hurried into his clothes, unabashed at dressing before the old woman. After all, she had been the first to dress him and Bill in three-cornered pants.

  Gruffly she greeted him. "You take cold last night?" she asked. "Your clothes not dry yet. You want I should fix…?"

  He quickly interrupted the question. "No, Maria, I don't need any cold remedy." He shuddered at the thought of the taste of her homemade prescription for everything from stomachache to burned fingers. "Fix me a couple of eggs to go with those pancakes, and I think I'll live." His boots were not dry yet, and he went back to his room for another pair.

  He was finishing his third cup of coffee when Josh Steuben, his foreman, stamped the snow off his boots and pushed open the kitchen door.

  "Mornin', Kirby," he said, shrugging out of his coat. He took the coffee Maria poured for him and joined Kirby at the table. "Looks like summer is over," he said.

  "Sure does," Kirby agreed. Josh is beginning to show his age, he thought. He watched, knowing regret, as his segundo's work-stiffened fingers closed gratefully about the hot coffee cup. Another good thing coming to an end. Wagon wouldn't be the same without Josh as ramrod.

  "What's new this morning?" he asked.

  "Nothing but the snow," replied Josh. "Sent a crew out early to drive the critters down from the east ridges. Rather they'd be closer to headquarters if we do have to haul hay. Don't rightly know what the weather's going to do."

  "Pretty early for a blizzard, but you never can tell in this country," Kirby agreed. "You going out?"

  He shook his head. "Waitin' for you," he said. "Held Curly and Ringo in, too. The Clear's risin' fast, Boss. Up a foot since first light. Must have been a whale of a rain up in the hills."

  Kirby smiled to himself at the foreman's choice of words. Only a little while ago he had called him boy or, on occasion, that danged kid. He waited for Josh to go on.

  "There's a jag of beef down in the west bottom," he said. "If the river gets much higher, they'll be cut off. Thought maybe you'd want to ride down with us to take a look."

  Kirby knew a glow of pleasure at the words. He knew he wasn't needed. Josh would decide what to do with the cows anyway. The foreman was using the situation as an excuse to get Kirby to ride with them.

  "Be with you as soon as I get a coat," he replied. "Have Curly or Ringo saddle the black stud. Haven't forked him in more than a week."

  Josh's weather-beaten grin was sheepish. "Already have," he admitted.

  The snow had begun to melt by the time the four riders hit the river trail, making the going slippery. Kirby and Josh dropped far behind Curly and Ringo to avoid the mud thrown up by their horses' sliding feet. Kirby knew that Josh had something on his mind… that he wanted to talk to him alone. He waited for his oldest friend to break the silence.

  At last Josh cleared his throat and asked awkwardly, "What happened in Streeter last night, Boss? I was some worried before you rode in."

  Kirby told him. The planes in Josh's angular face grew more and more pronounced as he heard about the whole affair, with the exception of his conversation with Jen.

  "Glad Muddy wasn't here to see it," he said at last. "Do you think Bill was bluffing?"

  "That I don't know. Can't seem to figure him, he's changed so much. Can't figure either, where he thought to get the cash to buy Wagon, but he talked like a man with the money in his fist."

  "There's talk about that, Boss. Maybe you heard some of it."

  "About Bill's money," Josh told him. "He made a big deposit in the Streeter bank and another one in Galeyville. Said he got it when he sold some of his herd. Said he was goin' to sell out everything and restock with shorthorns. Big talk, blooded cattle and all." He paused thoughtfully. "Something's wrong, though. We know how many cows he got when Muddy divided Wagon. Hardly enough to account for the size of them deposits… seein' as how he's got a lot of cows left over."

  Kirby felt cold fingers up and down his spine at the foreman's words.

  "Where do you figure he got it?" he asked.

  Josh took off his battered Stetson and scratched his head. "Well, boy, I hate to say it, but there's a heap of talk that cows missing from other brands could sort of get mixed up with the stuff Bill rebranded when he changed over from Wagon to Lazy B. He was in an all-fired hurry to get his new iron on the critters Muddy gave him. Now folks are wondering if missing Triangle, Rocking R, Acorn and other brands weren't with the stuff Bill sold and shipped out."

  "My gosh!" Kirby got out in a gasp. "Josh, that's the same thing as rustling. My own brother. Surely no son of Muddy's could stoop so low. Josh, if it's true, I'll go across the Clear and gun him down like a yellow dog."

  "Take it easy, boy. No one has made any charges. Maybe no one will. He could have gotten the money some other way. You know how people are: they add two and two and sometimes get six for an answer."

  Kirby seized on Josh's words gratefully. "Give the devil his due. There are some things that don't really add up. For one, his crew would know about anything crooked. Would they stand for it? And how did other brands get mixed in without someone driving them in?"

  "There are angles," Josh agreed. "But let's look at it like other men do. Four of the boys who went with Bill when Wagon broke up come askin' me for their jobs back. Wouldn't say why… just that they'd made a mistake. The crew Bill's got now are almost every one strangers to Streeter country. He's even hired some fancy guns… you seemed to bump into one of 'em last night."

  "Maybe I'm talkin' too much, but we may as well look at this thing, since we've got it out in the open. Bill has been seen a lot lately with Hub Dawes. You know him; runs a small outfit up in the hills. Cowmen have been suspicious of Dawes for a long time, but no one ever tried to prove he was actually stealing. Anyhow, the Lazy B joins Dawes' spread in some pretty rough country. It would be easy to hold a bunch of stolen stuff in the hills, and then at the right time run 'em in with Lazy B critters; say about rebranding time. Before anyone could get suspicious, that part of the herd could be sold." Josh paused and looked at Kirby's drawn face. Taking a deep breath, he went on:

  "Don't believe anyone has been curious, but
they will be. Dawes has been flashin' a lot of money in poker games at the Nugget. Where'd he get it? The time may come when he'll have to answer some questions. I only hope Bill isn't mixed up in the answers."

  Kirby felt sick. If Bill had actually sold stolen cows, even if he hadn't run them up the trail on a rainy night, the end result was the same. He was as guilty as if he had been caught with a running iron in his hand. If he was guilty, then there could be but one end. Sooner or later he would be taken. There would be a high limb, a tight rope, and the name of Street would be dragged in the dust of the range where it had always meant all that was fine and honorable.

  There was nothing more he could say, and Josh, as if dismayed at the effect of his words, fell silent. At that moment Curly appeared, riding toward them on the trail. He was breathless with excitement.

  "Josh," he yelled as soon as he got within hearing distance, "Mr. Street, our cows have plumb disappeared." He slid his horse to a stop in the mud.

  "Gone," echoed Kirby and Josh together. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean the critters has vamoosed. We went clean to the head of the flat, and there ain't a cow to be seen. And no tracks, either."

  "How many head in the bunch?" Kirby asked the foreman.

  "Two twenty-five, two hundred fifty head maybe. They just took to the hills. We'll find 'em scattered to hell-an'-gone."

  "Wanta bet?" asked Curly. "I've been hazin' mossy horns all my life. When cows move they leave tracks. If this bunch took to the hills, they took wings and flew. Ask Ringo."

  An hour later Kirby and his ramrod had to admit that Curly was right. There was plenty of sign that the cows had been grazing on the flat. But they searched all three sides of the rectangular meadow and found nothing more than the old tracks of an occasional stray. No herd of cows had left the flat. There was only one answer… the river.