Joe’s sleepiness dropped. He moved nearer. “I’ll ask another question, mister. How bad do you want Ox Bow?”
Indigo looked at his partner with an incredulous surprise. It wasn’t like Joe to so flagrantly violate etiquette. Then he fastened his attention on Dead Card John with a greater intensity than he had thus far. But Dead Card John showed no resentment. “I’ll expose my hand to you, friend. As long as Sam Trago lived I didn’t want an inch of Ox Bow. Sam Trago never knew it, but I was behind him. And the man who tried to run Sam off would have had me to look at. But now, friend, I’m fighting for Ox Bow. Let it lay like that.”
“Why should you be tellin’ me?” asked Joe.
Dead Card John didn’t answer the question directly. “You’re nobody’s fool, friend. You know what’s going on hereabouts, don’t you? I would lay a bet on it. I have never asked a favor of Terese. But if you’ll ride a piece with me tonight I’ll show you something else.”
“Why?” drawled Joe.
Dead Card John moved his shoulders. “You bought a hand in the deal I saw happen this afternoon. The ride will be about two miles.”
Joe nodded. “Come on, Indigo.”
“Meet me down the street by the stable,” said Dead Card John and disappeared in the hall. Indigo groaned.
“Doggone it, Joe, there’s a fine bear trap. Dark—rainin’ like sixty—two miles out to some shanty full o’ leather scratchers. Yuh ain’t usin’ good sense.”
“The man’s proud,” said Joe.
“Hell, so’m I,” grumbled Indigo. “But I—”
“He’s proud,” interrupted Joe. “It breaks his back to ask a favor. I’d say he ain’t ever had to do any such askin’ recently. But he shore was puttin’ in a call for help right now.”
“I didn’t hear no such words.”
“No, but he was askin’ just the same. Come on, Indigo.”
Indigo the fighter, Indigo the trouble-hunting bantam rooster, looked at the bed with mournful eyes and tried a last argument. “Ever strike yuh some peculiar he picked on total strangers for help? Why don’t he get home talent. I like to sort around and find my own grief.”
“Maybe strangers is the only help he can get. Come on.”
“Oh, all right,” said Indigo wearily. “I thought I was some hound for misfortune before I met you. But them days was like summer weather when I figgers back. Yuh got me worn to a thin shadder.”
Joe was half down the hall. “Shucks, Indigo, you was nothin’ but skin and bones when I found yuh. The summer’s made yuh seal fat.”
Indigo’s hot and personal protest punctuated the gloom. They crossed an empty lobby and let themselves into the rain-whipped night. Fewer lights burned in Terese; and those sent ragged beams across a flooded street. The partners beat against the wind, Joe in the lead. He heard a queer wailing down in the mud nearby, an unearthly caterwauling sound that suggested somebody gargling poison. Joe crouched at the mouth of an alley, hands touching a body. The mournful dirge grew more energetic.
“Who’s this?” asked Joe.
“It’s me—Snipe. Go ’way, I ain’t fit to be talked to. Go on ’way.”
“What’s persuaded yuh to come out here and catch consumption?” Joe wanted to know.
“Sam’s dead. Just found it out—gosh, I can’t tell the old man that! I’m drunk, but I wish I was a heap drunker. What’s to ’come o’ Ox Bow now? Hell, I ain’t got nerve enough to go back home. Go ’way.”
Joe tarried a moment. “Better let me boost yuh up—”
“Keep yore paws offen me!” protested the unhappy Ox Bow messenger. “A fine fandango it’ll be.”
The partners went on to the stable, got their horses and rode toward the street’s end. Dead Card John waited in the driving rain for them and the trio traveled silently away from town, quartering across a dead black desert. Joe’s sense of direction told him he headed approximately back up the afternoon trail, but he didn’t get his exact bearings until he saw the desert narrow and squeeze between tall, precipitous shadows. And a light glimmered by the road. They were at the lonely tavern wherein drink had been refused them. They rode abreast it and halted; Dead Card John disappeared for a full minute’s interval. He came back afoot, raising his words against the plunging elements. “A man’s in there to see me. If you’ve got stomach for eavesdropping go to the back door and come in the small room. It opens to the bar. You’ll hear something.”
“I practice deception because it’s a crooked world,” said Joe. “All right.”
The partners left their horses standing on the lee side of the building and groped along the wall until they struck a door. It let them into a room dark and stagnant. But a point of light came through a remote keyhole and, guided by it, they reached that inner door opening upon the bar. Joe turned the knob with caution and left the door slightly ajar. The same barkeep slouched behind the mahogany; over at a table with a lamp between them sat Dead Card John and the county’s sheriff, Crowheart Ames. The latter’s hands were flat on the table, palms up. He was smiling as he asked Dead Card John a question.
“Where’s all yore men?”
“You know the answer to that,” replied Dead Card John. “Nuggins has stolen part of them. The rest of them are no good to me—I’ve got no faith in any.”
“Why blame me?” countered Crowheart Ames.
“You’ve been mighty polite to Nuggins lately, Crowheart.”
“Got to make it appear as if I’m impartial, don’t I? But you know how I stand. You know exactly.”
Dead Card John’s face was marked with lines, as if he held back some terrific temper. “Do I know? I’m not so sure, Crowheart. Listen. I made you. I took you out of that saloon and made you. Hear that? I kept you in office, Crowheart. And you licked my boots as long as you knew you were safe.”
“Say, I don’t care much about that kind of—”
“Shut up. You’re a lickspittle. Been one all your life. You stuck fast with me as long as I looked good. But you’d jump the traces in a minute if you thought Nuggins could take the power away from me. Now you don’t know whether he or I’ll get that ranch. And you want to be on the right side.”
Crowheart struck the table with his fists. “I got to appear neutral, don’t I? You know me better. Tell me a Nuggins man you want in jail. I’ll put him there. Tell me what yuh want done, I’ll do it. But yuh got to start slashin’ the whip on yore boys. Slack reins won’t do. I been hearin’ some growlin’. I’d be in a pretty mess, wouldn’t I, sittin’ on the wrong side of the fence? Yuh got to move fast. It ain’t right I don’t help. I do help. The gate’s wide open as far as Ox Bow is concerned. You get busy. I’ll back yuh up with every legal trick there is. It’s yores, John. Yours and a little cut for me. But yuh got to get busy. Now I’ll do what yuh say. Name it.”
There was a wheedling, uneasy note in the man’s voice. Dead Card John almost spat at him. “Well, why haven’t you got Sam Trago’s killer in jail? Why haven’t you got posses out? You’re trimming to the winds, Crowheart!”
“Tell me who killed him. I’ll get the gent if yuh name him. Besides”—and Crowheart’s words were heavily significant—“why raise a ruckus about that? It opens the ranch wide to all comers don’t it? You get busy.”
“Rube Mamerock isn’t dead yet, Crowheart.”
The sheriff nodded his head. “I’m leavin’ that to yore judgment. Since when did yuh get religion?”
Dead Card John got up and turned. It was the signal for which Joe waited. He pushed into the room, glad to have this part of the deal over with. Crowheart kicked the chair from under him, growing red and excited. “Tricks, huh?”
“I practice deceit because it’s a crooked world,” said Joe. “I don’t like it none, so I’ll just clear myself by sayin’ I heard most o’ what you said.”
The sheriff shook his fist at Dead Card John. “Yuh can’t play me like that! Yore boat’s sinkin’. Yuh know it. Draggin’ in strange alley cats ain’t goin’ to help none! I’ll
drive ’em out o’ Terese faster’n hell!”
Dead Card John stared the sheriff into silence. “When I have to kill a man, Crowheart, I want witnesses to tell why I do it. You’re about to follow Nuggins’s kite. You figure there’s where the money is. All right. Nuggins dies before he gets Ox Bow. Mark that, Crowheart. I’m the man who takes Ox Bow. And God help you if you guess wrong and cut me!”
Crowheart backed toward the door, his pug face set in a defiance not quite free from fear. He swept the partners up and down. “Yo’re out of this quarrel, pilgrims. Better leave Terese behind. John, I ain’t takin’ no war talk from yuh. I don’t want to fight yuh. Get busy and I’ll do my share. But don’t ride me. Yuh ain’t so broad in the pants as yuh used to be.” He backed into the darkness.
Dead Card John turned to Joe. “Friend, I’m obliged for your coming. Have a drink. I never ask a man to drink with me. You saw Crowheart’s hand.”
Joe and Indigo tipped their glasses solemnly while Dead Card John stood back, fingering the fob hanging from his vest. Joe faced the man, slightly smiling. “I’d say the next excitement was due about tomorra night at the Ox Bow. Maybe you’ve got an invite?”
Dead Card John shook his head. “Rube Mamerock would cut off his hand before he took notice of me. But I will be there.”
Joe reached into a coat pocket, raised his fist and dropped a half-dozen of Ox Bow’s leaden invitations on the bar. “One for yoreself. Better bring some competent help with you.”
Indigo stared in wonder at the shells. Dead Card John swept the room with his arm. “Once I had men who never left this place unless I told them. Where’s my help now? I am obliged for the shells. I’ll be there.”
Joe nodded to Indigo; and both of them started for the front door. On the threshold Joe turned back with a last word. “I reckon we’ve seen everybody’s hand in this deal but yores. Don’t let that worry yuh none. I know what yore hole card is.”
“I doubt that, friend,” replied Dead Card John somberly.
“It’s a trick I learned when I was a kid—down in Abilene.” He saw the man start toward him, eyes blazing against the white skin. But he pushed Indigo before him into the darkness. And in a moment they were riding back for Terese.
“He’s askin’ for help,” said Joe, bowing his face to the slantwise rain. “And he knows we’re in on the deal.”
“Who said so?” snapped Indigo. “I didn’t hear no words to them sentiments.”
“What do you figure I gave him the slugs for, Indigo?”
“Yeah? Say, when did yuh get them anyhow?”
“Out of that Ox Bow man’s pocket, when he was wallerin’ in the mud. Don’t chew yore words so bad, Indigo.”
“More pious robbery!” howled Indigo. “My, but this stinks. So we’re helpin’ a notorious son-of-a-gun steal a ranch. Joe, yo’re crazy! Yo’re plumb lunatic. How far have I got to singe my whiskers in this mess? I don’t get yuh a-tall.”
“It’s this fellow Dead Card John against Praygood Nuggins. Somebody’s got to drop.”
“What difference does it make?” asked Indigo, thoroughly roused. “They’re both so crooked a snake’d break his back tryin’ to foller their shadders. Let ’em drop. It can’t be done—said stealin’—unless this Rube Mamerock’s plugged. And further unless one bunch wipes out the other bunch. And still further unless they’s a lot o’ corruption in holdin’ the property from rightful heirs. Yuh mean to tell me yuh deliberately aim to dirty up yore reppitation with this? Say—!”
“If Rube Mamerock dies, it won’t be by Dead Card John’s bullet,” stated Joe. “I’m layin’ all my spare cash on that. But if the old duck does die and there’s a fight for the outfit, then Nuggins has got the drop on Dead Card John. That’s what this skate Al was doin’ up at that roadside honky-tonk tonight when we first rode through. He’s Nuggins’s way o’ tinkerin’ with John’s riders. Yeah, Dead Card John is blame’ near licked now.”
“Let him get licked. You and me had better eat breakfast a long ways south o’ Terese.”
“We eat barbecued meat at the Ox Bow tomorra night, Indigo. And if trouble starts we’re standin’ beside Dead Card John. Sleep on it. I know what his hole card is. It’s a good card.”
Indigo punctured the gusty, wet night with the sulfuric outpourings of a ridden soul. They came to Terese again and slept.
Chapter IV: Night at the Ox Bow
Unless a man wished to break his neck in trying to descend the rear bluffs, there was but one entrance to the Ox Bow home quarters and that turned from the Terese trail and crossed the river at the trembling and narrow wood bridge. When the partners arrived at the turn-off, lanterns made a flickering and uncertain cluster in the very middle of that bridge. They embarked upon it single-file; the river, swollen by the steady rains, boiled a foot beneath the planking and the whole structure swayed as if it were a raft. It gave Indigo a very queer feeling in the pit of his stomach; he was no sailor and he disliked leaving the firm underfooting of land. “It’s like the rest o’ Terese,” he grumbled; “held together by rotten string. This thing ain’t apt to be here by mornin’ if it keeps on rainin’. Hustle on, Joe, before she buckles.”
Other travelers came behind, likewise in single-file, and the bridge shook with each hoofbeat. Midway, lanterns flared against Joe’s face; he was challenged by a pair of slickered cowhands. “Tickets, gents.” Joe produced the slugs and the pair gave the leaden invitations a severe, close inspection. The lanterns rose again and fell more fully upon the partners. The nearest of the bridge guardians spoke dubiously. “Strangers here?”
“Yeah. But yore messenger struck up a close friendship with us last night.”
“I reckon,” was the spokesman’s dry answer. “Most o’ Terese was Snipe’s friends about then. How in hell—?”
The other cowpuncher ended this. “Let ’im pass. He’s got an invite. An invite is an invite.”
“What would stop some unasked gent from manufacturin’ his own invite?” asked the curious Joe.
“It’s been tried before,” was the laconic answer. “The results ain’t usually fatal, but they’s painful. Pass on, stable yore brutes and assume total freedom of the premises. But how in hell—?”
The partners moved away, hearing the brace of punchers pass dire words concerning Snipe. “That’s about the ninth mistake Snipe made. The old man’ll shore kill the weaselly little runt if he ever shows up here again. Ain’t had good sense at no time. We better start refusin’ some o’ these invites. Rube nev’ meant ’em to get scattered around like handbills.”
“Invite is an invite,” argued the other. “Anybody that shows one here gits acrost the bridge, if it’s a Chinese, sheepherder or spaniel dawg. Yuh know Rube never dishonors his invites. That damn’ Snipe had better keep headin’ away from Terese, no mistake. Invites, gents.”
The partners went on, reaching an enormous open shed. More lanterns confronted them and roustabouts led away their horses. They ducked around a dark corner of the house, climbed the steps and were again halted by ever-present Ox Bow men. “Guns, gents.” Joe surrendered his own without argument and saw it hung on a peg beside twenty others. But Indigo was reluctant, and only a prod of Joe’s thumb stilled his protest. “What kind of a party is this, anyhow? Without my gun I feel sorter naked, and some giddy.”
The custodian of lethal hardware stabbed his thumb toward a corner of the room. “They’s a keg over there with the head knocked out. Drop a dipper into it, fella, an’ yuh’ll either recover from said giddy feelin’ or yuh’ll get so worse it won’t make no difference.”
They strolled into a room as immense as a barn. Oak beams stretched across it, two stories high; a dozen bracketed lamps flooded the place with light. At one end a fireplace wider and more massive than the partners had ever seen was choked with blazing logs. Doors opened from this room on three sides and the partners had a partial view of long rows of tables set for a feast. Already a substantial gathering filled the ranch-house. Men arrived
, gave up their guns, and circled past the welcoming kegs; men drifted casually through the room, singly and in pairs; they clustered in groups, the smoke of their pipes spiraling to the beams. Joe took a sparing drink, but Indigo plunged a tin cup into the very bowels of the barrel and drew it back dripping full. He drank it like water and hung his cheerless, brooding face over the open barrel’s mouth.
“I rise to remark this Mamerock fella ain’t niggardly in no proportions. Joe, what makes a keg full o’ liquor look so much better than the same amount in bottles? It just makes me thirsty. Yuh could drive a herd through this joint without scrapin’ paint.”
“Hit that keg easy,” warned Joe. “We got a good use for temperance tonight.”
Indigo threw an exasperated stare at his partner and surrendered the cup. “I thought there’d be some sorter ketch. Joe, if I found a fifty-pound nugget lyin’ on the prairie I’d prob’ly have two busted arms an’ couldn’t pick it up. Or I’d go color blind an’ pass it by for a plain rock.”
They ambled toward the fireplace. There was a white-haired man standing with his back to the flames, a powerful figure overladen with fat and crippled and twisted by an apparent rheumatism. Others flanked him and presently Joe heard his name called. It was Rube Mamerock. Joe watched the Ox Bow owner’s shaky fingers struggling with a match and his sympathy, never far below the surface, was instantly enlisted. All men had to die, but it was a pity they couldn’t go out before they felt the helplessness of old age. Here was one who had been a tremendous fighter. And now the wolves were snapping at his heels and he had his back to the wall; a man who, on the eve of an anniversary, had a gray and discouraged and troubled look upon his cheeks. The white head bobbed up and down in answer to a low spoken comment.
“You boys know I been a good neighbor,” Joe heard him say. “I never set a heavy hand on my friends. I’ve had a good time livin’. What more can anybody ask? Smoke an’ drink an’ eat hearty. It’s a cold night out. Reminds me of seven years ago. The year of the big drive north. Keep warm, boys. Like to see yuh enjoy yoreselves. Like to have it feel like old times. Old-timers go pretty fast. This is the last fandango Rube Mamerock ever gives at Ox Bow.”
The Western Megapack - 25 Classic Western Stories Page 43
