by John Legg
He nodded in understanding. “Then what in hell are we gonna do to straighten this mess out?” he asked.
“We?”
“I ain’t rode all this way just to ask you the time of day,” Guthrie snapped. “Besides, I’d still like you to come to California with me. We can’t do that till we take care of business here.”
“This ain’t necessary, you know. And it could get dangerous.”
“It wasn’t necessary for you to come waltzin’ into The Pearl Saloon back in Abilene, either, especially knowin’ there was a passel of hardcases waitin’ to face you.”
Kinchloe nodded, his mind working over the possibilities.
Chapter Five
“Well,” Kinchloe finally said, “I ain’t sure exactly what we can do about Tyrell. But I got me more than two hundred head of cattle, and I’ve got to do somethin’ with ’em.”
“Bring ’em to California with us,” Guthrie said. “I hear there’s a good market for beef out there. Besides, it’d help get you off to a good start.”
“I can’t take ’em all,” Kinchloe said after a moment’s hesitation. “I ain’t got enough hands to control that many beeves on the trail for a couple thousand miles. Besides, I ain’t aimin’ to go out there broke. I’ve got a bunch of cattle—half of ’em or maybe a little more—ready for market. If I can sell them, I’ll have a pocketful of cash for the trip, and a hell of a lot less trouble with beeves on the trail.” He sounded wistful. Then he grinned. “Sellin’ them cattle around here’d sure go a long way toward gettin’ Tyrell’s goat, too.”
“You know for sure somebody over in Sweetwater’ll buy ’em?”
“Yep. Me and Flo’s brother, Case, have talked about it a couple times—through letters and such.”
Guthrie grinned grimly. “You give me a letter of introduction to Case. I’ll take it there.”
“What good’ll that do?”
“Your brother got any gumption, ma’am?” Guthrie asked, looking at Florence.
“I’d say he has as much as my husband,” Florence answered seriously, but she smiled with pride and touched Kinchloe’s arm with a hand.
“Can he hire hands down there in Sweetwater?”
“A few I’d reckon.”
“Then I’ll sell him the cattle there in Sweetwater and tell him he’s got a week to get himself here and fetch ’em up or we’ll turn ’em loose.”
“He can’t hire enough men to make him safe crossin’ Tyrell’s land—which he’ll have to do unless he wants to go halfway up to the Indian Nations before heading east again.” Kinchloe was torn between anger and bitterness. “Hell, we already discussed that, him and me. He was gonna come out this way with half a dozen hands or so, buy my cattle here and then herd ’em back to his place. But Tyrell got wind of it, and spread the word that anyone who tried to do business with the Lazy PK was takin’ his life in his hands.”
“He crazy enough to risk startin’ a war with folks over in Sweetwater?” Guthrie asked. He wouldn’t admit to being shocked, since he had seen men who were far crazier than that. But he was a little surprised.
“Yessir,” Kinchloe said firmly. “It’s why I’m so cautious. I can’t take any chances. There’s no tellin’ what that crazy son of a bitch’ll do.”
Guthrie poured some whiskey in his cup, rolled and lit a cigarette, puffed a little, and drank some. Then he said firmly, “You write to your brother-in-law. Tell him to bring cash and enough hands to trail them cattle back to Sweetwater.”
“But what about Tyrell?”
“I’ll see to Mister Tyrell.” There was a deadliness in his voice that left no doubt that Guthrie would be true to his word.
Florence’s hand on her husband’s arm tightened with excitement. Hope sprang into her heart. She looked into Kinchloe’s eyes—and saw that he felt it, too.
Jack Guthrie rode the buckskin gelding slowly up the lane—ruts in the sod was more like it— toward the house. He had no fear that anyone was watching him furtively—except perhaps from the house—or waiting to ambush him since there was no place to hide, except for several barren ridges scattered about. Off to his right, Guthrie could hear the rushing water of the Double Mountain Fork of the Brazos River.
He stopped in front of the spacious porch of the large, two-story house. The place was ornate, with wood planking brought in from God knows where, painted in somber but sharp brown, offset by white trimmings. There was real glass in all the many windows, and lace curtains.
Guthrie stopped and dismounted. After loosely tying the buckskin to the wrought-iron hitching post, he surveyed the place for a moment. There was a big barn with a large corral on the left side of the house, away from the river. Two sod and adobe bunkhouses sat under the shade of two cottonwoods a few hundred yards farther from the creek. Farm machinery, wagons, and tack were scattered about the yard. On the other side of the house, reaching almost from its eastern wall right down to the riverbank, was a garden. Shoots of corn and the twiny vines of watermelon showed promise.
Despite the warmth of the day, Guthrie wore a buckskin coat that was fringed along the outer seams and yoke. The coat reached the bottom of his buttocks—just long enough to conceal the backup Remington worn at the small of his back—and was open in front, allowing quick and easy access to the big Remington.
Guthrie walked up the three steps and across the porch. He stopped and then rapped sharply on the door. A few moments later the door was opened by a young, attractive, light-skinned black woman. “Yassir?” she asked.
“I’d like to speak with Mister Tyrell,” Guthrie said blandly.
“Yassir. Who should I say is callin’?”
“Someone lookin’ to do a little business.”
“Yassir. Step inside and wait here.” She closed the door behind Guthrie and then strolled down the hall, her broad hips swaying, her bare feet making no sound in the carpeted hallway. She was back quickly. “Mister Tyrell say he don’ want to see nobody tidday. ’Specially some no-’count drifter lookin’ fo’ work, or worse, a handout.” Guthrie ran his tongue over the molar on the left side of his mouth. Then calmly, he said, “What’s your name, missy?”
“Octavia.”
“Well, now, Octavia, y’all just go on back there and tell that maggot-infested pile of cow dung that if he don’t consent to chat with me a spell, I’m gonna stroll on down there and kick his ass for him so hard he’ll be usin’ it for a necktie.” The woman giggled. “Yassir,” she said gleefully. Guthrie waited patiently while the woman made the trip to one of the rooms opening off the corridor 'and then returned. “Mister Tyrell says he’ll see you now.”
“Glad to see he changed his mind,” Guthrie said with a grin.
The woman laughed and turned to lead the way. As she walked, she whispered out of the corner of her mouth, “There be a man waitin’ fo’ you jis’ inside the do’. To the lef’.”
“Thanks, Octavia,” Guthrie said quietly.
Octavia showed him the door. Guthrie nodded and hesitated just a moment. Then he stepped inside, moving two steps very quickly and spinning to his left.
A tall, well-dressed man stood there, pistol raised in his right hand to club Guthrie down. He was rather surprised when Guthrie had moved into the room so quickly. Guthrie took the moment’s hesitation to lash out with a fist, hammering the man in the chest. The man stood transfixed, mouth slightly agape as he tried to breathe and to conquer the massive pain in his chest.
Guthrie grinned grimly and grabbed the wrist of the man’s gun hand with his left. His right took a firm grip on the man’s same arm between the biceps and elbow. Then he jerked the man’s arm forward, smashing the forearm against the edge of the doorjamb.
The snapping bones sounded like a muffled double gunshot. It was followed by a dull thump as the pistol he had been holding fell on the floor. The man groaned, that being the best he could manage since he was still trying to breathe around the flaming pain in his chest. His eyes rolled up and he teetered on the heels of h
is boots.
Guthrie let the man’s arm go. The limb hung uselessly, cocked at an odd angle. Guthrie grabbed the man by the nose between his left thumb and index finger. “I think y’all need a rest, pard,” Guthrie said sarcastically. He tugged the unresisting man by the nose toward a plush chair and then shoved lightly.
The man, eyes dulled by the pain and shock, flopped into the chair and sat unmoving. He seemed barely conscious.
Guthrie turned to face a man of about thirty. He was expensively dressed and might have been considered handsome by some—had his face not been tightened up with fear. “And y’all,” Guthrie said with a slow, exaggerated drawl, “must be Lem Tyrell.”
“I am,” Tyrell croaked. “Who the hell are you?”
“Name’s Jack Guthrie,” Guthrie said with a broad, friendly smile. He moved a little so his back was facing the outside wall. This way he could keep an eye on Tyrell, the door, and the window some feet behind Tyrell. It was the safest spot he could find. His only vulnerable spot was another window behind him a little to his right, and anyone who wanted to get a shot at him that way would be facing a bad angle for shooting.
“What do you want here?” Tyrell licked his lips. There was something familiar about this Guthrie, but he could not place it. There was something deadly about him, too, and Tyrell was stunned at how easily Guthrie had handled Luther Prang, the guard who had been at the door.
“I got a little business proposition for you, Lem,” Guthrie said easily. He cast his eyes about, checking, always checking. He began rolling a cigarette. “Leave Pete Kinchloe alone.”
“What?” Tyrell asked, surprised anew. '
“Well, you got your range detectives, like this ass here,” he nodded toward Prang. “Well, now, Mister Kinchloe’s got his own. Me. And I will not brook no trouble from a goddamn fool like you.” He stuffed his fixings away and stuck the cigarette in his mouth. After lighting it, he said, “Next time you send a rider out to Kinchloe’s place, I’ll cart him back here in the back of a wagon. Looks like you got plenty of room to add to the cemetery. You might need it, if you’re foolish.”
Guthrie glared at Tyrell, who looked like he wanted to explode in rage but was too frightened to do so. “Furthermore, we’ll be havin’ some buyers for Mister Kinchloe’s cattle comin’ by after a spell. You’ll leave them alone, too, both on their way in, and on their way out with the cattle. That clear?” He looked almost innocent.
The bland look gave Tyrell courage. “I don’t know who the hell you are, or who the hell you think you’re dealin’ with,” Tyrell said, trying to build up a head of righteous indignation. “But if you don’t know, you best find out.”
“I know who you are, you pissant little snot,” Guthrie said with something almost approaching glee in his voice. “And you ain’t gonna do nothin’—except what I’ve told you to do.”
“Like hell I will.” Tyrell seemed to be finding a small reservoir of courage.
“You remember a couple of boys named Taggart? Brothers, they were. Job and Luke.”
“Yes,” Tyrell said, suddenly grown wary.
“You know what happened to them?”
“One of ’em was gunned down by some goddamn…” Tyrell’s eyes opened wide and then a little wider. “You?” he breathed.
“That’s right,” Guthrie said, voice cold, face suddenly hard as the polished walnut of his Remington. “Got his brother, too, just a few months ago, after the idiot come after me. Job wasn’t the first, and I doubt much that Luke’ll be the last.”
He tossed the cigarette butt into the fireplace to his left and watched it smolder a moment. Then he turned his cold, hard eyes back to the thin, pale man who seemed dwarfed in the overstuffed chair. “So, you heed what I said, Tyrell. You send any men after me or Pete, and they’ll come back here ready for the undertaker.”
He strode slowly across the room toward the door. Just before reaching it, he stopped and spun, sinking into a crouch as he did so. When he stopped, it was with the Remington cocked at the end of his extended arm. He fired.
The sound was very loud in the room, and the cloud of powder smoke lingered in the air a few moments. Tyrell looked like he had soiled his pants, and he dropped the derringer he had produced from within his jacket.
Guthrie straightened, sliding the Remington away as he did. “You get only one chance, Tyrell. You’ve used that up. You ever pull a gun on me again, I’ll blow your goddamn brains out.” He turned to leave, but then stopped and looked back. “You best have a doctor look at your pard there, before he loses that arm permanently.”
Then he turned and walked out the door. Octavia stood there, grinning, her teeth gleaming whitely in the dim hallway. “Afternoon, Miss Octavia,” Guthrie said with a pleasant smile. He doffed his hat.
“Thank you, Mister Guthrie,” she said.
So she had listened to it all, he thought. It did not bother him; he just hoped Tyrell would not find out and harm her for it. “My pleasure, ma’am.”
Softly whistling “Little Brown Jug,” he headed out the door. He took one last look around the place before pulling himself into the saddle and trotting off down the lane. He felt rather pleased with himself. For several months he had seen no action—or none of this nature, anyway. And he found he had missed it. It was good to get back into such things again.
Chapter Six
It was the only tree for miles around, but it was so small that it offered little in the way of protection, shade, or cover. Still, Guthrie stood on the slight ridge beside it, watching the four men leave Tyrell’s Lazy Y Ranch and head down the trail toward the town of Goat Fork. But Guthrie continued to watch, since he had the best vantage point in the area. He did not think the four were actually heading for town.
He was right. Half an hour later, Guthrie, still watching patiently, saw the four men south of the ridge, riding steadily toward Pete Kinchloe’s place. Guthrie smiled grimly. He was not a man who enjoyed killing. He had killed far more times than he liked to remember—in the war, afterward in the Indian wars, and later as a bounty hunter. But he felt blessed in that he had never come to like it, to feel that thrill that some men did when they gunned down another. He would often take satisfaction in surviving a gunfight, or in a job—killing—well done, but he never gloated over it, never took joy in it.
Still, there were times when he almost looked forward to a gunfight or confrontation, even knowing that it would lead to death. There were just times that such things had to be done. And when they did, he was ruthlessly efficient. He was beginning to believe that this was one of the times a confrontation would be necessary, and he felt a certain amount of excitement at the thought as he pulled himself onto his buckskin horse.
He galloped off, paralleling the four men from Tyrell’s ranch, but at a slightly faster pace. They would have to cross a slow, muck-filled stream two miles on. The stream slugged its way through the bottom of a ten-foot-deep, twenty-foot-wide wash. While Guthrie had no thought to actually ambush them, it would be, he figured, a good place to confront them.
Guthrie got there some minutes before the four, and eased the horse down into the gully. He dismounted and climbed out of the arroyo and lay prone, where he watched through his telescope at the small but growing cloud of dust out on the horizon.
The billowing puff of haze coalesced into something more solid, and eventually four men trotting on horses appeared amid the rising cloud. Guthrie nodded and slid the telescope in on itself. He squiggled backward, and then turned and clambered down the side of the gulch. He stuck the telescope in one of his saddlebags and brushed himself off. Finally he checked his pistols—the big Remington first. When he slipped it back into the cross-draw holster on his left hip, he did not bother to hook the small leather loop over the hammer. He wanted it ready. Able to hear the four coming, he quickly checked the smaller Remington at back. Then he mounted his horse and sat waiting.
A few minutes later, the four men edged over the lip of the arroyo and down. They
were startled when they saw Guthrie sitting there, waiting for them, but they masked it pretty well. They stopped just across the sludgelike stream from Guthrie.
The four were a hard-looking lot, but Guthrie was not afraid of them. Wary, yes, but not afraid. Two were dressed fancifully, with town suits, string ties, and derbies. A third—a dark-eyed, dark-skinned, somewhat handsome Mexican—wore a sombrero and serape. Guthrie did not think the serape would hinder the man’s draw or aim any. The fourth was, compared with the others, shabbily clad in worn wool pants, frayed though clean wool shirt, and dirty Stetson.
“You’re in our way, friend,” one of the men wearing a suit said politely. His face was bland and calm, though his eyes were alert and were assessing Guthrie. “We’d like to pass on by.”
“In a minute, pard,” Guthrie said, as evenly as the other had spoken. “I’m of a mind for a small chat.”
Guthrie was sitting in the saddle, leaning forward just a bit, resting his right forearm on the saddle horn, with his left hand, loosely holding the reins, resting atop it. Such a position kept his right hand within inches of the butt of the big Remington—and yet kept that hand mostly hidden from the four men facing him across the mud slough of a stream.
“About what?” the man asked innocently.
“You got a name?”
“Clarence Larson. Not that it’s any of your account.” The man was still polite. He could tell that Guthrie was a deadly man, but then again, Guthrie was outnumbered considerably. There was no reason to be worried and, he had learned, no reason to push another man too far for no good reason.
“Where’re you headin’, Mr. Larson?” Guthrie asked, eyes watching Larson. But he also was keeping an eye on the other three. He didn’t know quite how he did it, but he found it very useful and so never questioned it.
