Bowdrie (Ss) (1983)

by L'amour, Louis

  Karen had followed, and she was looking down.

  "Karen," he said gently, "you'd better go back to the horse. Remember him as he was. That's the way he'd want it to be."

  Without a word she walked back to her horse. He waited a moment; then with his hands he moved some of the earth and rocks until he had exposed the face of a man whom he knew by description as Bert Ramey. He had been shot twice, at close range, by a rifle.

  When he climbed back to the bench, he carried Ramey's pistol, a Winchester, and several letters. There was a small packet of bills and some change.

  He handed it to her, but when she drew her hand away, he said, "Don't be foolish, Karen. You will need money, and who is more entitled to it? Consider it a gift from him. That's what he would want.

  "As for the guns, I'll keep them for now. They are evidence.

  And I shall want to read these letters and study that tally book."

  He stuffed the letters into his saddlebags and hung the gunbelt over his pommel. The Winchester he slipped under the binding on his blanket roll, drawing the knots a little tighter.

  Who was the killer? Who?

  "Mr. Bowdrie? Somebody is coming."

  So intent on the problem had he been that although the sound registered, he had not been alerted. Yet. Karen rifle was ready.

  The horseman rounded into view, then pulled up. It was Al Conway.

  "Howdy! I didn't expect to see you here."

  Chick's eyes went to the 0 Bar 0 brand on the black's hip. His eyes held on Conway's.

  "I found Ramey," he said.

  "He's been murdered."

  Conway got out the makings and rolled a smoke.

  "Figured so," he said bluntly.

  "Ramey was no thief."

  Digging into his pocket, he drew out two telegrams.

  "These are for you. I judged you'd like to see them before they fell into the wrong hands."

  "Meaning?"

  "Whatever you like. It was just an idea I had."

  Bowdrie ripped open the messages, glanced at each, and then looked up at Conway.

  "You want to do something for me, Al?" He hesitated, thinking.

  "Ride back to the ranch and tell Karns that DeGras se has bought him a ranch and registered a brand in his name alone."

  Conway shrugged.

  "You know what you're doin', but I'm sure glad DeGras se is in Comanche. I ain't up to a shoot-out with him.

  He's tellin' it all over the country that he backed down the famous Chick Bowdrie, that you're all bluff."

  Bowdrie looked after Conway, his eyes cold with speculation.

  Conway had been on the scene almost too suddenly, and how had he found them? Had they been followed? Or had Conway come to cover the scene of the crime more thoroughly?

  "You found Father ..." Karen said.

  "Are you going to leave him there?"

  "Nothing will bother him, ma'am. He never knew what hit him. Later, if you like, we can send a wagon for him."

  Comanche was shadowed by late dusk when they fast-walked their horses down the street. Bowdrie sent the girl to the hotel and then took a stance across the street from the saloon when he saw Mark DeGras se was inside.

  He was worried by a vague impression of something overlooked, of some mistake or error in his calculations.

  It was almost midnight when Mark DeGras se left the saloon and went to the hotel.

  Bowdrie sighed with relief. Had DeGras se mounted and headed for the ranch, Bowdrie would have had to follow. Suddenly a vague thought that had lingered in his mind became stark and clear. He came to his feet and went down the street to the blacksmith shop. All was dark and still, the shop like an empty cavern.

  There was a pile of old horseshoes.... He crossed to it, then knelt and began to strike matches. A footstep behind him sent a prickly chill up his spine.

  "Hey!" It was the blacksmith.

  "What're you doin' here?"

  Bowdrie straightened.

  "Have you got a lantern? I want to check something."

  Grumbling, the blacksmith went into his home, adjoining the shop, and returned with a lantern.

  "You told me which of the old shoes had belonged to Ramey's horse. Do you know any of the others in this pile?"

  "There ain't a shoe I ever put on or took off that I don't remember."

  "Good!" Chick placed a pair of worn shoes on the ground near the pile.

  "Who owned these?"

  The shoes showed much hard travel, yet on each arm of the shoe was an arrow-shaped design.

  The blacksmith picked up one of the shoes.

  "That's the first pair of shoes I replaced for Lee Karns. Right after he come into this country an' bought that ranch. That arrowhead's the mark Indian Joe Davis puts on his work. He's the blacksmith over at Monahan."

  Bowdrie turned away.

  "Thanks. You've been a help, and I appreciate it."

  When Chick Bowdrie walked into the hotel dining room for breakfast the next morning, his dark features seemed sharper, his eyes restless.

  Scarcely had he seated himself when he was joined by Karen.

  "I saw Mark DeGras se last night. I saw him in the hallway."

  "Did he see you?"

  "I'm sure he didn't. When I heard his step, I thought it might be you, with something to tell me, but I drew back and closed the door. Mr.

  Bowdrie? What's going to happen? This morning, I mean?"

  Before he could reply, Al Conway entered and walked directly to their table.

  "Karns came into town early, Bowdrie. We met on the trail this side of the ranch."

  "What did he say?"

  "Not much, just glanced my way and mentioned some work that needed to be done. Soon as he was out of sight, I circled into the hills and came into town myself."

  Conway turned his hat in his hand.

  "Bowdrie, I don't want you to come up with the wrong idea. I never killed Bert Ramey. He was a good man. One of the best."

  "I know you didn't, Al. Although for a while I wasn't sure.

  You've rustled a few head of stock here and there, Al, and if I were you I'd keep my rope on my saddle and get rid of that cinch ring. It shows too much evidence of being used in a fire."

  "Thanks." Al hesitated.

  "But can I help? This here DeGras se ..."

  "What about DeGras se The gunman had walked up behind him.

  "What were you about to say, Al?"

  "He was about to say," Bowdrie interrupted, "that you were a bad man with a gun, Mark. Won't you sit down?"

  DeGras se simply stared at him, contempt in his eyes.

  "You'd better," Bowdrie said, "because you're in this up to your neck."

  DeGras se shrugged carelessly.

  "D'you think I killed Ramey, is that it?"

  "Sit down!" Bowdrie's voice boomed in the small room.

  "Sit down. Mark!"

  Chick Bowdrie had a gun in his hand, and it had not been there a moment before. Mark's tongue touched his suddenly dry lips.

  Mark eased into a chair, keeping his hands in sight.

  "You registered a brand in El Paso, the Spectacle brand. It was registered in your name. You moved cattle off the range here up to your ranch on the Canadian."

  DeGras se touched his tongue to his again dry lips. The pistol appearing from nowhere had destroyed his poise. He realized suddenly that he had no business touching a gun in the presence of Chick Bowdrie.

  "That was for Karns. We did it together."

  "But the brand was registered in your name only. And it is mighty easy to change an 0 Bar 0 to a Spectacle. Are you implying Karns would steal his own cattle?"

  The door opened gently, and Bowdrie looked up into the eyes of Lee Karns.

  "I see you got him, Bowdrie. DeGras se was plannin' to steal my ranch.

  He's been rustlin' my cows, and I never even guessed!"

  His eyes turned to DeGras se "Where's the money you stole? I found the sack it was carried in ... in your bunk
!"

  DeGras se lunged to his feet.

  "You lie! I stole no ... I" He made a stab for his gun--too late!

  Lee Karns had a gun in his hand, and he fired, then again.

  DeGras se sank at the knees, tried to straighten up, his hand working to draw the gun that was suddenly too heavy. Then he fell to the floor, his lips struggling with words that refused to come.

  There was an instant of silence and then Lee Karns looked over at Bowdrie.

  "There's your killer an' your case, all wrapped up."

  Chick Bowdrie had sat very still; now he got to his feet.

  "Conway? Take Miss Ramey out of the room, will you?"

  Bowdrie picked up his flat-brimmed, low-crowned hat and put it on.

  "You're right, Lee. My case is all wrapped up. I am arrestin' you for the murder of Bert Ramey, for conspiracy to defraud, and for the kinin' of Ranger Tomkins in the robbing of the Valverde Bank."

  "Are you crazy?" Karns protested.

  "What's this nonsense about Valverde?"

  Chick faced Karns across the table, his left side toward him.

  Karns still held his gun in his hand, and the range was pointblank.

  "You framed DeGras se You planted that money bag, expectin' me to find it. You had him register that brand, knowing it would be additional evidence, and all the while you were plannin' to gyp the bank of their money.

  "You owed the bank money and you owed Ramey money, so you stole the fifteen thousand and murdered Ramey. The bank could go ahead an' foreclose, because you had already rustled your own stock and moved it to the Spectacle, on the Canadian.

  "You intended me to find that Mark had registered the Spectacle, but you'd already registered it yourself, in Tascosa. I checked both places by telegraph.

  "I still didn't have you pegged until I recalled a horseshoe I'd seen at the blacksmith shop. Then this whole rotten deal cleared up. It was the same deal you tried to work six years ago in Dimmit County.

  That went sour on you, so when you pulled out, you robbed the Valverde Bank and killed Tomkins."

  Lee Karns held his gun on Bowdrie.

  "I killed one Ranger, and I can kill another!" he shouted.

  Bowdrie had never bolstered his own gun, holding it at his side away from Karns. As Karns spoke, Bowdrie lunged hard against the table, throwing Karns off balance. As Karns caught himself and straightened up, gun lifting. Chick Bowdrie shot him.

  Karns stood still against the wall, staring at him.

  "I had it made," he said.

  "I was winning."

  "You never had a chance, Karns," Bowdrie said.

  "You hurt too many people, an' you left too many tracks."

  Karns slid slowly down the wall, leaving a bloody streak behind him.

  Bowdrie ejected a shell, then reloaded the chamber. He dropped the pistol into its holster.

  Karen came running into the room.

  "Are you all right. Chick?

  Are you hurt?"

  "I'm all right. Let's get out of here!"

  Seated in the sunlight in front of the hotel, Bowdrie slowly let the tension ease from his muscles. He closed his eyes for a minute.

  "You've got some money comin'," he said to Karen.

  "We'll sell those cattle an' you'll get what you have comin'. Your pa was a good man."

  He opened his eyes and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

  "I'd move away from here, if I were you," he suggested.

  "Go to San Antone or somewhere. This country is hard on women."

  "I thought I'd buy some cattle and start ranching on my own. If I could--" "Get Al Conway to help. He's rustled a few head, but he's really an honest man, and he wouldn't cheat a woman. Al could doit.

  "Me," he added, "I never learned to live with folks. Most youngsters learn to live with people by playin' with other youngsters.

  I never had any of that. I never really belonged anywhere.

  I was a stranger among the Comanches an' a stranger among my own people when I got back. I never belonged anywhere. I'm like that no-account horse of mine.

  "Look at him. He's got him a mean, contrary disposition, he spends his time lazin' around at that hitch rail, just layin' for a chance to kick the daylights out of you.

  "He'll bite, too, given the chance. Just look at him! He's ugly as sin! Ugly inside an' out, but you know something? He can outrun a jackrabbit, and once started, he'll go all day an' all night.

  "He can get fat on grass burrs an' prickly pear, an' some other cowhand's saddle is frosted cake to him. He'd climb a tree if he wanted to or if you aimed him at it, and he could swim the Pacific if he was of a mind to. He doesn't like anybody, but he's game, an' nothin' this side of hell could whip him. He's my kind of horse."

  Bowdrie got to his feet.

  "That Conway, ma'am? He's a good man. He'll build you a good ranch, given time, an' a nice girl like you could gentle him down to quite a man."

  Later, with a few dusty miles behind him, Bowdrie commented, "That there's a fine girl. Horse, you reckon you an' me will ever settle down?"

  The hammerheaded roan blew his disgust through his nostrils and pricked his ears. He, too, was looking toward the horizon.

  *

  THE KILLER FROM THE PECOS

  It was early afternoon, but the town was already up and sinning when Chick Bowdrie left his roan at the Almagre livery stable.

  Every other door was a saloon or gambling house. Five different nickelodeons blared five different tunes into the street. The rattle and bang of the music was superimposed upon the crack of teamsters' whips, the rattle of chips, and the clink of glasses.

  Occasionally the tumult was punctuated by the exultant bark of some celebrant's six-shooter.

  Almagre, born of a silver outcropping, exploded from nothing into hearty exuberance, a town born to live fast and die hard but smoking, with many of its citizens setting the example. At the age of ten months the town had planted thirty-three men on Boot Hill, led by a misguided newcomer who tried to fill an inside straight from a boot top.

  The founder, a wiser man than those who followed, had raced a pack of yelling Comanches to the railroad and departed for the East with his scalp intact. Behind him all hell broke loose. Strangers who hit the town broke knew fifty ways to make money, all of them dishonest, and among the gentry who now kept the lid off the town was one Wiley Martin. It was his trail from Texas that brought Chick Bowdrie to Almagre.

  The reason was simple. Martin--or supposedly Martin--had used his six-shooter at the Pecos Bank to withdraw six thousand dollars. In the process he had shot down in cold blood both the cashier and the president of the bank.

  There was a catch in it, of course, as there nearly always was.

  There was no adequate description of the outlaw.

  A description of sorts: a big man--and at first glance all Almagre's citizens looked big---and he had a girl's head and the name "Marge" tattooed under his heart.

  Standing on the street, Bowdrie eyed the passing crowds with disgust.

  "If you go to pulling the shirts off every man in town, you've bought yourself some trouble!"

  It began to look like the goosiest of wild-goose chases. Aside from the vague description, the escaping outlaw had dropped a letter addressed to Wiley Martin, and he had left a trail of sorts.

  Few trained men could have followed the trail, but a good many Apaches could have, and Chick Bowdrie did.

  He had taken but two steps toward the nearest and largest saloon when the batwing doors exploded outward and a man landed in the street on his shoulder blades. He came up with a lunge, grappling at his gun, but the doors slammed open again, revealing a bearded man with a gun.

  He fanned his six-shooter, and four shots exploded into a continuous roar. The first shot smashed a window four feet to the left of the man in the street, the second and third shots obliterated his belt buckle, and the fourth grazed the hip of one of the two broncs hitched to a buckboard.

/>   The bro nc leaped straight up and forward, coming down across the hitching rail, which splintered beneath it. The horse went down, threshing wildly in a snarl of harness and broken rail. Its mate backed away, snorting. The girl in the buckboard grabbed at the reins, and Chick lunged for the downed horse. A grizzled prospector moved in to lend a hand.

  "Looks like a live town," Bowdrie commented.

  "This one?" The old man spat expressively.

  "She's a lalapalooza!

  A real wing dinging hot tamale!"

  The wounded man in the street made a futile effort to rise, then sagged back. Nobody approached him, not sure the shooting was over. Bowdrie's quick estimate told him the girl was in more need of help than the unfortunate battler, for he had only a minute or two to live.

  "That's only the first one today!" the old man said cheerfully.

  "Wait until Bonelli gets in! Things'll pop then!"

  "Who's Bonelli?"

  "He makes big tracks, son." He gave a glance at Bowdrie's guns.

  "If you're hunting' a gun job, there's only two ways to go.

  You work for Bonelli or you become town marshal. The first job can last a lot longer. We just buried our third town marshal."

  "Bonelli hires gun hands "He surely does! He's revolutionized the cow business in this neck of the woods. He drove fifty head into the hills three months ago, and now they all have four or five three- to six-month-old calves!"

  Bowdrie chuckled.

  "Sounds like an enterprising man. What the marshal's job pay?"

  "A hundred a month, cabin, an' cartridges. Of course, you'd be sleepin' in a dead man's bed!"

  They had the horse on his feet and quieted, so he broached his question: "Ever hear of a man named Wiley Martin?"

  The old man put his pipe stem between his teeth and started away on his short legs without another word. Mildly astonished, Bowdrie stared after him, then turned to help the girl from her buckboard. An older man, probably her father, was coming to help.

  He looked like any other man except that he was freshly shaved and seemed prosperous. The girl could have been nobody else in the world, for they never made two like her.

  "Thanks for helping to get my horse up," the older man said.

  "I am Jed Chapin. This is my daughter, Amy."

  "Proud," Bowdrie said.

  "Folks call me Tex."