Sudden--Troubleshooter (A Sudden Western) #5

by Frederick H. Christian

  The elder Gunnison remained silent. The advent of the coolly imperturbable Green had been surprisingly upsetting; the man did not have the outward appearance of a liar, although Gunnison had met plenty of men who had the most honest and open of faces, but were black-hearted villains who would have killed their own mothers for a dollar bill. He felt restive; the cowboy had probed into some area of his mind, disturbed a feeling which he had pushed out of his thoughts, and set it to plaguing him. He could not put it into words; but it was there. Meanwhile, Randy Gunnison was still talking.

  ‘Your old-time notions of fair play are out of date, Father,’ he told the old man. ‘These people aren’t going to be impressed or affected by notions like that. They’re out to grab our range if they can. It’s up to us to stop them.’

  The old man looked up at his son with tired eyes. ‘How come yo’re so all-fired anxious about Saber all of a sudden?’ he wanted to know. ‘I ain’t seen yu spendin’ yore time tryin’ to find out how the place is run. I figgered yu was more interested in runnin’ up a bill at Tyler’s, or whatever yu do with yore time.’

  His son chose to ignore this familiar attack upon himself. It was an old bone of contention between them and he did not want to become side-tracked by it now.

  ‘Never mind that now,’ he told his father. ‘You just remember what I say. If you give those homesteaders an inch they’ll take more than a mile – they’ll steal the Saber from right under your nose! Why you’ve never taken the men up there and cleaned them out I’ll never understand.’

  ‘Is that what they teach you in them fancy Eastern schools I sent yu to?’ growled Lafe Gunnison. ‘Right is might?’

  ‘No, Father,’ Randy replied. ‘They don’t teach it, but you learn it just the same. All those boys in that school had parents who could buy and sell Saber fifty times a day for a year and never notice they’d spent money. They didn’t stick to the letter of the law, believe me. When the law got in their way they changed the law.’

  ‘Damned if I don’t think that sendin’ yu there was the worst thing I ever done. Ever since yu come back here, yu been spoutin’ about money bein’ the only thing in the world worth havin’.’

  ‘Not money, my dear father,’ sneered Randy. ‘Power! Money is power! You don’t seem to realize that. You could brush those damned thieves in the Mesquites off you like a man swatting flies, and nobody would say a word and you know it.’

  ‘Mebbe that’s why I ain’t done it, boy.’ said Gunnison heavily. ‘Another thing about power is the way yu use it.’

  ‘Well, things would be very different if I were running the Saber, I’ll tell you that!’ his son told him.

  The old man turned, a flash of anger brightening his eyes for an instant. ‘Yu ain’t runnin’ Saber yet,’ he growled. ‘Until yu are, yu stick to yore theories an’ I’ll stick to mine.’

  Randolph Gunnison crossed the room and opened the door to leave. As he did, he turned, shaking his head. ‘I’ll never understand you,’ he said, without trying to hide the contempt in his voice. He slammed the door and Gunnison heard him stamping out on to the porch and calling one of the men to fetch his horse.

  Gunnison shook his grey head. ‘Cuts both ways, boy,’ he said sadly. His thoughts turned back in their previous path, and he reviewed again what the dark-haired cowboy, Green, had said. Someone had tried to kill Susan Harris; but for what reason? He was sure that there must be an explanation behind it. Some hunter, maybe, frightening the girl? That still didn’t explain the shot which had so nearly killed the boy. That boy! In that one fleeting moment the boy had borne such an amazing resemblance to … he shook his head. The whole thing was impossible! It was some cool plot to discredit the Saber, to make the homesteaders appear like the injured party. He snorted. Injured party, hah! Damned nesters. The story was the same wherever they took up land. The big spreads would begin to lose beef. Nothing serious: one or two head, he thought. Nesters always reckoned that killing a beef for food wasn’t theft. Crumbs from the rich man’s table. Then they’d graduate to two, three head. You didn’t complain: it wasn’t worth it. Coyotes and wolves pulled down as many every month. But nesters were always greedy. Because you’ve deliberately chosen to overlook the loss of a couple of head, they start to think about stealing to sell instead of stealing to eat. Botching brands, hazing ten, twenty head down to some dusty town where no questions were asked, some anonymous buyer who’d throw them into a bunch which some drover would take up north in a trail herd to the Reservation. The Injuns weren’t particular whose beef they ate; and the Army asked no questions so long as the price was right. Finally, the nesters discovered that it was easier to steal than work their land, and then you had a full-time rustling problem on your hands. He slapped his thigh. ‘Dammit!’ he growled to himself. He’d liked the look of Jacob Harris when he’d first met the man. It had gone against the grain when he’d discovered that Harris had filed on land up in the Mesquites, land he’d always thought of as Saber land until he’d learned at the land office that he didn’t even have title to the land on which his own home stood. Harris and his neighbors had become a kind of symbol of the fact that his own easy-going good-natured way had become out of date. His cronies in Tucson had sympathized: everyone knew nesters were plain no damned good. Maybe Randy was right; maybe he ought to get the men together and clean them out of the Mesquites once and for all. It had to be one of them. Maybe even the shooting at Harris’s girl had been done by one of them. He shook his head. If only a man could go up there and talk to them. But no self-respecting cattleman could countenance that. Saber was in the right. ‘I was here first,’ he told himself. ‘Damme if I go to Harris an’ apologize for it!’

  He stoked an old briar pipe and sat for a long time, smoking in the silent room. There had to be something he could do. Finally, moving like a very tired man, he came to a decision and, crossing the room, he sat down at his battered old roll-topped desk. He sat there for a long moment, then pulled out a pen and some paper. Slowly, chewing the pen between words, he began to compose a letter.

  Chapter Seven

  THE MAN rode into Yavapai from the south at about noon. He was not a big man by frontier standards; perhaps five feet seven or eight, but there was strength in the supple frame. The man rode a bay stallion with an ornate Mexican saddle, decorated with silver that gleamed in the golden sunlight. Although his clothes were dusty they were evidently of good material; he did not look like a man who had ridden from Tucson within the last two days, but he had. The man on horseback entered Yavapai from the south, noting the location of the buildings in the town, a faint sneer playing about his lips.

  In truth, Yavapai was nothing to look at. It was typical of any hundred other southwestern settlements of that time; a wide strip of wheel-rutted, hoof-pounded dust comprising its only street, flanked on either side by jagged rows of crude buildings, some of adobe, squat and unattractive, the two-foot-thick walls robbing them of any grace. One or two of the edifices along the street were of timber, warped and bleached by the blazing Arizona sun. A few, like the bank and Tyler’s saloon, had glass windows with blinds which could be drawn to give at least an air of coolness in the midday heat. Along the street on both sides ran a boardwalk for pedestrians; it was broken here and there, and unrepaired. A few of the larger buildings boasted hitching-rails, and an attempt had been made to sweep the ever-present tin cans and bottles into piles of trash which would be collected if the town ever became civic-minded enough to care. On this inspection the stranger thought it unlikely. Yavapai appeared to have been thrown down from above haphazardly into the middle of the narrow end of the valley watered by the river from which the town took its name. Yavapai had no beauty, no charm. It had begun as a crossroads and a saloon. The store, the bank, the land office, Mrs. Robinson’s restaurant had all come later and existed only to serve the cattlemen from the surrounding area: Saber on the north, and two large spreads which lay some forty miles to the south, halfway along the road to Tucson.


  The stranger spotted the bleached sign on the false front of Tyler’s saloon and guided his stallion towards it. Dismounting, he hitched the animal to the rail outside and, mounting the boarded sidewalk, pushed his way through the batwing doors into the gloomy coolness of the saloon. His step was light and wary, and his right hand rarely swung more than three or four inches away from the tied-down holster at his side. The holster was an unusual one; unlike most it was a one-piece construction, an expensive gun rig in which the holster and belt had been cut entirely from the same piece of leather. The belt was, like the man’s saddle, studded with silver. The holster was hand-stitched and reinforced, with a deep cutaway section carefully shaped to expose the maximum amount of butt, trigger guard, and trigger for an exceptionally fast and easy draw.

  The stranger’s wary gait and his ornate gun belt could hardly have escaped the notice of the few solitaire-and-whisky cases who were in the saloon this early in the day. These few stared in speculation as the man approached the bar. He favored them with a fleeting, narrow-eyed glance and then ignored them. Tyler came bustling along to serve the newcomer. His bonhomie fell away like autumn leaves as he looked into the cold green eyes.

  ‘Whisky,’ snapped the man. ‘¡Pronto!’ Tyler hastened to obey the curt command, pouring a generous drink into the shot glass with a slightly shaking hand. He was about to cork the bottle when the stranger laid a hand firmly on his arm and said, ‘Leave the bottle. I ain’t gonna be able to stomach this town without a few drinks. Gawd! What a hole!’

  Tyler edged away, and busied himself polishing glasses to an unaccustomed luster which would have startled any regular drinker in Yavapai’s only saloon. The few patrons of the establishment, after their initial covert survey of the newcomer, had gone back to their drinks, their cards, and their murmured conversation.

  ‘Yu!’

  Tyler’s head jerked up from his polishing as the stranger’s cold voice broke the near-silence. ‘Me? Yessir, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Mighty little, if this is yore best likker,’ snapped the stranger. ‘This burg got a Marshal?’

  Tyler nodded. ‘Name’s Appleby.’

  ‘Go get him,’ commanded the stranger.

  Tyler nodded unquestioningly, and hastened out of the building. As the bartender’s footsteps receded, the stranger turned and hooked his elbows on the bar. He eyed the citizens of Yavapai with an expression of infinite distaste on his face.

  ‘Get the hell outa here!’ he told them. ‘Move!’

  Wide eyed, the half dozen men in the bar, stumbling into chairs and bumping each other in their rush to comply with this narrow-eyed stranger’s command, hastened out into the sunlit street. They foregathered on the porch of the saloon, and the man inside smiled to himself as he heard their muted protests at this treatment. ‘Sheep!’ he said, pouring himself another drink. He tossed it down as Tyler and Tom Appleby came in through the batwing doors, affecting not to notice the fact that Appleby remained near the wall, thus leaving no opportunity for the man in the saloon to hold him silhouetted against the bright sunlight outside.

  ‘Yo’re a careful man, Marshal,’ said the stranger.

  ‘I got to be,’ was the cool reply. Appleby surveyed Tyler’s customer. The excited saloon-keeper had come rushing into Appleby’s office gabbling about a man coming into the saloon, looking as deadly as a tarantula, apparently spoiling for trouble. What he saw was a shortish man of about thirty, with a fancy gun rig and an expression of disdain that looked as though it might be the man’s permanent expression.

  ‘So yo’re the Marshal,’ the man said.

  ‘I’m the Marshal. Name’s Appleby.’

  ‘Marshal, I ast yu to come over so I could introduce myself proper. I didn’t want to give the impression I was huntin’ yu up.’

  ‘All right,’ Appleby said shortly. ‘Yu made yore point.’

  ‘I’m Wesley Cameron, Marshal,’ the man said.

  A collective gasp escaped the lips of the knot of onlookers clustered outside the saloon. The news of their summary ejection by the stranger had spread quickly, and perhaps thirty men were now gathered on the sidewalk, craning their necks to see what was going on inside.

  ‘It’s Wes Cameron,’ the oldster nearest the door announced to the others in an awed voice, and the name was passed in a whisper around the group as they craned their necks even harder to catch a glimpse of this cold-faced stranger, owner of a name to strike a chill into the most hardened of hearts. Wesley Cameron! Few present had not heard the name. The man was a walking legend, one of the breed that had included Hickok and Billy the Kid and Johnny Hardin. Cameron, it was said, had cleaned up Galeyville, had been on the losing side in the Lincoln County troubles, and had won a reputation as a cold-blooded killer in the Texas Salt Wars. He was always just on the right side of the law, was said to have always given his man an even break. It was also rumored – although no one had ever dared to voice the rumor in Cameron’s presence – that he was a hired gun, one of that bloodless breed who would, for pay, force another man into a situation which could only be resolved by gunplay. All of this, and more, was part of the gabble of whispering that circulated in the crowd outside Tyler’s as Tom Appleby digested this news.

  ‘I’ve heard o’ yu,’ the Marshal told the newcomer. ‘What do yu want with me?’

  ‘Just declarin’ myself, Marshal,’ Cameron said with a wolfish smile. ‘I’m aimin’ to spend a while in yore delightful mee-tropolis, an’ I wanted to start off right.’ Appleby nodded, and Cameron continued. ‘I’m a peaceful hombre, Marshal, an’ I ain’t huntin’ no trouble.’ He spread his hands. ‘But yu know how it is. I turn up someplace, an’ some damn’ fool has to try an’ find out if I’m as fast as they say.’

  ‘Yu ain’t likely to run into that kind o’ trouble here,’ Appleby said levelly.

  ‘I shore hope not,’ Cameron said. His smile was nearly sincere as he added, ‘But just in case … well, I been in some towns where the Law warn’t exactly … impartial.’

  ‘Cameron,’ the Marshal said. ‘Yu’ll get the same treatment in Yavapai that any peaceable citizen gets – as long as yu stay peaceable. If there’s any trouble’ He pointed a finger at Cameron’s pearl-handled revolver. ‘Yu better have a good reason for bein’ in it! Yu step out o’ line an’ I’ll have to take yu in.’

  ‘Hell, Marshal,’ Cameron smiled, the wolfish expression back on his face, ‘I’d hate that. I ain’t never killed a Marshal yet.’

  The insult hovered in the air, bait waiting to be taken; but the Marshal did not rise to it.

  ‘How long yu figger to stay?’ he asked.

  ‘Long as it takes.’

  ‘Yu mind tellin’ me yore business here?’

  ‘Shore do.’ The reply was flat and cold and Cameron’s manner was baitingly watchful. Appleby, however, just shrugged.

  ‘Yore business,’ was all he said. ‘But remember what I said: yu pull one more stunt like treein’ Tyler’s saloon an’ I’ll run yu in.’

  Cameron nodded, a faint smile lingering about his lips. ‘Just wanted a mite o’ privacy, Marshal,’ he said. Raising his voice he called out, ‘Hey! Yu gents out there come on in! I’m buyin’ drinks for everyone! Come on, come on in!’

  The crowd outside looked at each other for reassurance, and those in front shuffled their feet hesitantly as the gunman repeated his invitation, louder this time. One man, bolder than the rest, pushed in through the doors, and then, slowly, the others followed, almost mesmerized by the fact that the famous, the infamous Wes Cameron was here in Yavapai, and not only that but about to buy drinks for them all. Gradually they came sheepishly in. Cameron was as good as his word, and soon there was a sizeable knot of men standing alongside him at the bar, drinking in his words, eager to be near him, to slap his shoulder, to watch his every movement so that later they would be able to boast that they had drunk at the same bar as Wesley Cameron.

  Appleby watched the crowd sourly for a moment as they clustered around the
gunman, and nodded to himself. Cameron would be a ten-day wonder; the same mob would as cheerfully hang the gunman if they were given enough cause, and led to it. For some reason the thought seemed to amuse him. He smiled briefly and then turned and pushed his way out into the street. Over the heads of the clustering sycophants around him Cameron watched the Marshal leave, and a sardonic smile touched his lips. Good actor, he told himself. Wonder if he’s got any nerve when the chips are down? Probably not, otherwise I wouldn’t be here now. He turned back to his new ‘friends’ with inward distaste, forcing a smile on to his face.

  Chapter Eight

  SEVERAL UNEVENTFUL days had passed; Green had told Harris to pass the word along to his neighbors to be double careful, after the bushwhacking attempt on Susan and the youngster. Philadelphia had been constantly plaguing the cowboy with questions about his foray on to the Saber. What had he done? What had he seen? What had he found? To these and all the boy’s queries Green turned a deaf ear. ‘Yu’ll know soon enough,’ he told Philadelphia. ‘Meanwhile, yu keep yore eyes skinned for anyone pokin’ around these parts who don’t belong up here.’

  Indeed, the cowboy was in no mood for questions. He was himself unable to properly explain what he had discovered on the Saber. It appeared that someone on the ranch was responsible for the attempt on Philadelphia’s life, but it seemed very unlikely that Lafe Gunnison knew about it. The man was bluff and forthright; he was not the kind of actor who could carry off a deception of such magnitude, Green was convinced. If Gunnison was ignorant of the fact that someone in his employ was responsible for the ambush, then it followed that the motive which could have been attributed to the bushwhacker – that he was working for Gunnison, trying to throw a scare into Harris in order to make the homesteader move off his land – no longer applied. That being so, what was the motive? Why had Philadelphia and the girl been fired on? These and other thoughts occupied the puncher’s mind as he went about his daily tasks until in the end he revealed them to Harris.