Wolves of the Chaparral

by Paul Evan Lehman

  WOLVES OF THE CHAPARRAL

  WOLVES OF THE CHAPARRAL

  PAUL EVAN LEHMAN

  M. EVANS

  Lanham • Boulder • New York • Toronto • Plymouth, UK

  Published by M. Evans

  An imprint of Rowman & Littlefield 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706

  www.rowman.com

  10 Thornbury Road, Plymouth PL6 7PP, United Kingdom

  Distributed by National Book Network

  Copyright © 1938 by Paul Evan Lehman

  First paperback edition 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  The hardback edition of this book was previously cataloged by the Library of Congress as follows:

  Lehman, Paul Evan.

  Wolves of the chaparral, by Paul Evan Lehman.

  p. cm. — (An Evans novel of the West)

  PZ3.L52791 Wo PS3523.E434

  38013404

  ISBN: 978-1-59077-424-3 (pbk.: alk. paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-59077-425-0 (electronic)

  The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

  Printed in the United States of America

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I.

  LEAD MEDICINE

  CHAPTER II.

  EXILE

  CHAPTER III.

  MURDER ON THE TRAIL

  CHAPTER IV.

  A WEAKLING WITH A WAD

  CHAPTER V.

  QUESTIONS WITHOUT ANSWERS

  CHAPTER VI.

  NIP AND TUCK

  CHAPTER VII.

  A MYSTERY IS SOLVED

  CHAPTER VIII.

  THE HEAD LOBO SPEAKS

  CHAPTER IX.

  GOOD FISHING

  CHAPTER X.

  TUG SETS A TRAP

  CHAPTER XI.

  THE BETRAYAL

  CHAPTER XII.

  SAM’S BOLD STROKE

  CHAPTER XIII.

  MATT BUYS A DRINK

  CHAPTER XIV.

  THE JAW’S CLOSE

  CHAPTER XV.

  THE WOLF SNARLS

  CHAPTER XVI.

  THE WAGES OF SIN

  CHAPTER XVII.

  THE BLUFF THAT WORKED

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  THE SECRET OF THE POOL

  CHAPTER XIX.

  RETRIBUTION

  CHAPTER XX.

  THE LAST VERSE

  WOLVES OF THE CHAPARRAL

  CHAPTER I

  LEAD MEDICINE

  YOUNG Barry Weston dipped the brush in a basin of water and determinedly renewed his efforts to plaster down a shock of brown hair which a perverse Nature had definitely decided should be curly. His best efforts were useless; by the time he had subdued, by dint of much brushing and a liberal application of water, the last of the unruly locks, the first were dry and twisting in rebellion.

  Barry detested these curls with all the masculinity of his nineteen years. Curls rhymed with girls, and, while quite becoming to one like, say, Barbara Dawn, were entirely out of place on the head of a man. Barry wondered a bit peevishly why he couldn’t draw his hair over his forehead and brush it neatly in place like Joe, the bartender at the Silver Palace, did. Nature, he firmly believed, had given him a raw deal when it came to hirsute adornment.

  As he frowned into the cracked mirror above the washstand, he was entirely unconscious of the fact that this same Nature had been extremely generous with respect to the rest of him. His shoulders were broad, his waist slim, and he had to stoop slightly to look into the mirror. The face which frowned back at him, while tanned, was good to look upon. Just now it fairly shone from the scrubbing it had received.

  Despairing of achieving a coiffure as faultless as that of Joe, Barry turned his attention to his scarf. It was a flaming yellow in color, and went very handsomely with the bright-blue silk shirt his mother had given him on Christmas. He knotted it carefully, then, before donning his coat, buckled about him a new and elaborate hand-tooled cartridge belt and holster. From the latter protruded the slick walnut handle of a Colt six-gun, Barry’s most highly prized heritage from his father.

  Pressing a carefully dusted gray Stetson over his wet locks, Barry cast a final critical look at his reflection and made his way to the living room. His mother was seated in her favorite rocking-chair, darning. She looked up at his entrance and smiled approvingly. His stepfather lowered the newspaper he was reading and glared at him over its top.

  “Where you goin’ all dressed up like a Christmas tree?” he asked sourly.

  “Thought I’d ride over to the Cinchbuckle and see if Clement’s goin’ to town.”

  “You didn’t dress up like that for Clement. You’re goin’ a-courtin’ his sister. Better keep clear of the Cinchbuckle or you’ll have Steve Maley in your hair.”

  “That polecat better stay away from her!” blazed Barry. “He’s rotten to the core. Look at that waitress over at the café; she was crazy about him. His old man had a sweet time hushin’ that up! And there’s others. Steve Moley’s got no right within fifty feet of a decent girl like Barbara Dawn.”

  “He gits lots closer than that, if what a feller hears is the truth,” said the stepfather. “Don’t you go stirrin’ up trouble with Steve. We don’t want Judge Moley down on us.”

  For his mother’s sake Barry withheld the scornful words which trembled on his lips. This stepfather of his was craven; a weak-spined creature. Barry often believed that his mother had married him in order to have a man about the house to do the chores. Ignoring his foster parent, Barry crossed to where his mother sat and placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “I’ll be home early, ma; don’t wait up.”

  She smiled at him. “I’ve got quite a bit of mendin’ to do; I wouldn’t be surprised if I was still up when you get back. If I’m not, I’ll leave the back door unbarred. Be a good boy, now.”

  It was the admonition which followed him every time he went out. Barry patted her shoulder affectionately and stepped out on the gallery. It was dusk, and the evening wind swept the odor of sage across the range land. He caught up the showy pinto gelding and cinched his silver-mounted saddle in place. Barry was proud of that saddle; it had cost him a great deal of hard labor and self-denial. His step-father paid him a wage so small that he was ashamed to tell his mother.

  By the time he reached the Cinchbuckle it was quite dark. There was a light in the living room of the big house, and he could hear the hands talking and laughing in the bunkhouse. The gallery was a recess of deep shadows. He swung from his horse at the hitch rack and ascended the steps.

  “Is that you, Barry?”

  He turned swiftly. Barbara was back there in the gloom. Probably in the hammock.

  “You bet it’s me,” he said, and started to grope his way to her side.

  His foot struck a riding boot extended in the darkness. Had he been moving more rapidly he would have tripped over it. As he was recovering his balance, a voice spoke drawlingly.

  “Good evenin’, Mister Weston.”

  Barry stiffened, peering at the rocking chair from which the boot extended. That was Steve Moley’s voice; he was there in the shadows with Barbara.

  “You, huh?” Barry grated.

  “Who’d you think it was; Clement?�
�

  A stifled laugh from Barbara forced the climax. To a girl of sixteen the awkward stumbling, followed by the dry question, was a bit of harmless by-play; to Barry, diffident and self-conscious, the action was a deliberate attempt to humiliate him, the drawling remark an intentional effort to complete his confusion. A wave of hot anger, searing as the breath of a furnace, swept over him. All the accumulated hatred for this sneering young libertine surged to the surface. Like a whiplash Barry’s fist shot out, thudded solidly against flesh, knocked the languid Steve Moley completely out of the chair.

  With a pantherlike leap Barry was on him, hands searching swiftly for the gun he knew Steve would attempt to draw. Barbara’s sharp command went unheeded. He caught Moley’s wrist as the weapon was wrenched from its holster, twisted it sharply, heard the gun strike the veranda floor. Groping fingers found it, tossed it swiftly into the shadows of the porch; then, panting, Barry got to his feet and stood waiting.

  Moley got up slowly, and even in the darkness Barry could feel the burning intensity of his gaze. He felt Barbara grasp him by the arm and in the white heat of his anger brushed her roughly aside. With a cry of indignation she thrust herself between them.

  “Barry Weston, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Striking a man who was sitting in a chair and then trying to push me aside! I think you’ve gone absolutely crazy. Go home and don’t come back—ever. I don’t want to see you again.” Instantly she turned to Moley, her voice softening. “Did he hurt you, Steve?”

  Barry stood there for a moment, his cup of bitterness full. Of course he was to blame; that hot temper of his was constantly getting him into trouble. If Barbara only knew Steve Moley as he knew him; but she didn’t. Girls didn’t hear the gossip of saloon and store; folk diligently kept from them the more sordid and shabby facts of life. Indistinctly he could see her brushing Steve’s cheek with her handkerchief, and he experienced a little savage thrill of satisfaction. It would take more than a bit of lace to wipe away the brand he had placed there. Abruptly he turned and strode from the gallery. Flinging himself into the saddle he headed the horse towards town.

  At the sound of hoofs, Barbara came to the edge of the gallery and stood looking after him. Her face still burned with resentment, but even then a little voice was whispering that perhaps she had judged too harshly. She tried to stifle it.

  Steve moved over beside her, fingers still caressing his sore cheek.

  “The yellow pup!” he said. “Knows better than to stand up to me. Had to hit me when I was sittin’ down.”

  “Steve, you shouldn’t have tripped him.”

  “That wasn’t what riled him. He’s jealous. Right now he’s carryin’ with him a picture of you and me makin’ love in the dark.”

  She turned on him indignantly. “We weren’t making love, Steve Moley, and you know it! Don’t you even dare suggest that we were!”

  “Sure not. I was just foolin’. Come on; let’s sit down again.” An arm slipped tentatively about her slim waist, but she twisted away.

  “I don’t feel like it, Steve. I’m going in. Good night.”

  She left him abruptly. Steve stood for a few seconds looking at the door which had been shut in his face. He was frowning, and his lips were curled in the sneer which had become characteristic of him. He was older than Barry by two years, and to him Barbara Dawn was a kid; an adorable kid, to be sure, but a kid just the same. Her treatment of him rankled.

  “Needs takin’ down a peg or two,” he mumbled finally, and fashioned a cigarette. When it was going nicely, he strolled from the gallery and with the aid of lighted matches found his gun. Getting on his horse he, too, headed for town.

  By the time Barry reached Mescal, the hot flame of anger had simmered to a smouldering blaze which was ready to flare at the slightest suggestion of a draft. He dropped from his horse at the Silver Palace hitch rack, jerked a slipknot in the rein, and entered the saloon. Clement Dawn, Barbara’s older brother, stood leaning against the bar. Barry ranged himself alongside his friend and ordered whiskey. Clement eyed him wonderingly, but accepted the drink Barry bought for him.

  Barry tossed off his liquor, repressing a shudder as he did so. He did not like the taste of the stuff, but men drank it, and Barry liked to think of himself as a man. Clement spoke a bit anxiously.

  “What’s the matter, Barry? You’re white as a sheet. Sick?”

  “Clem, I’m so mad I’m like to bust. I stopped at the house on my way to town. The gallery was dark. When I climbed the steps Barbara called to me, and I thought she was alone in the hammock. She wasn’t. Steve Moley was with her.”

  Clement’s face hardened. “Was, huh?”

  “Yes. Clem, we know what he is; Barbara doesn’t. It burned me up to find him there. You ought to warn her against him. In a nice way, I mean.”

  “I’ll talk to her.”

  “Don’t be rough. She just doesn’t understand that it will hurt her to be associated with that scum. You’re her brother; you can tell her easy like.”

  “Sure, I’ll tell her. What that Steve Moley needs is a good dose of lead medicine, and he’s sure goin’ to get it before long. See you later, Barry.”

  He nodded and walked purposefully away. Barry watched until he had gone, then, feeling a bit reckless, ordered another drink. It left him dizzy, and he went outside to get some air. The sidewalk was deserted. He heard the beat of hoofs and thought at first it was Clement on his way home; but the sounds approached rather than receded, and presently a horseman swung up to the rack and dismounted. As he stepped within range of the Palace lights Barry recognized him. It was Steve Moley.

  Steve carelessly draped a rein across the rail and, ducking beneath it, stepped to the walk. Barry was standing by the swinging doors, and at sight of him Steve stopped abruptly.

  “I want to talk to you,” said Barry.

  Moley stared at him, his black eyes glinting. “I don’t want no talk out of you. I’m not sittin’ down now.”

  “You’re goin’ to listen to me, Steve. It won’t take long; I can put it in very few words. It’s this: keep away from Barbara Dawn.”

  The sneer on Maley’s lips became more pronounced. “You danged meddler—tellin’ me what to do! Chew on that and see how you like it!”

  He lunged forward, striking viciously. Barry ducked, and the hard fist glanced off the side of his head. His own fist swept upward in an arc and landed squarely on Maley’s chin. It was not a knockout punch, but the force of it sent Maley sprawling backward, dazed and dizzy. He brought up against the hitch rail, fell, and rolled into the street. His horse reared, tearing loose the reins, and wheeled away from the rack. Barry’s mount was prancing nervously, and in that instant Weston hoped he’d trample Steve into the dust; but Maley rolled clear, got to his knees, and clung to the rack waiting for his brain to clear. In the light which streamed from the saloon Barry could see his face plainly. His eyes were glinting and the thin lips were drawn away from his teeth, giving him the appearance of a snarling wolf.

  Quite suddenly he pulled himself to his feet, his hand flashing for the gun at his hip. Barry saw the glint of light on the steel barrel, and his hand streaked for his own weapon. The action was instinctive; never before had he drawn his gun on a man.

  The hot rage within him was extinguished as suddenly as though he had been plunged into an icy pool. His head cleared, his muscles steadied. He caught the flash of Maley’s gun, felt the hot breath of the slug on his cheek, even heard the sound of lead plunking into the building behind him. Although he had never practiced drawing, the old gun came out of its holster as though it had been greased. He held his elbow close to his side and shot from the hip.

  Maley staggered under the impact of the slug, teetered on his heels for a moment, then plunged face down in the dust. And in that one short second Barry became horribly aware of the enormity of the thing he had done.

  “My God!” he cried, and ran to Moley’s side. He lifted the man in his arms. Moley was limp, and his he
ad lolled as Barry raised him. “Steve!” he cried. “Wake up, man!” But Moley did not respond.

  Barry glanced about him. Voices came to him from the inside of the Palace, and he could hear the thud of boots on the wooden floor. In another moment they would come rushing from the place, guns in their hands. He would be caught, and without any defense. He had shot Steve Moley, the son of the town’s most influential citizen. Son of Judge Moley, who held the sheriff in the palm of his hand and administered the high justice, the middle, and the low! And he couldn’t explain the reason for the quarrel. He’d die before he’d drag Barbara’s name into this. They’d hang him higher than Haman.

  He dropped the inert body into the dust and sprang for his horse. The animal, nervous, backed to the full length of the rein. Barry jerked it loose, swung the pinto, grasped the horn. Men were streaming from the saloon. Barry yelled at the horse, and as the animal lunged into full stride, ran with him for a few yards, then vaulted into the saddle. Bending low, he headed the pinto for home.

  The sweep of the wind on his cheeks helped restore his faculties. He brushed his hand across his forehead and removed it covered with cold sweat. He fought against the emotion which engulfed him, striving to think clearly. There would be no safety for him at the ranch; he must flee the state entirely. But first he would tell his mother. She was a little woman, but she was stanch. She would understand, and she would help.

  He flung himself off the gelding outside the house. The livingroom light still burned. As he passed through the doorway he could see her still busy with her mending. She looked up, smiling as usual; then her face sobered at sight of the desperate light in his eyes.

  “Barry! What’s wrong, son?”

  He crossed to her side, dropped on his knees by her chair. “Ma, I’ve done somethin’ awful! Steve Moley—I’ve shot him!”