Ramrod

by Short, Luke;

  A couple of men came out of the Special then and halted on the walk and turned toward the saloon. Three more men came out, and among them Dave saw the blocky black-clothed figure of Frank Ivey. The four men gathered about Ivey for a moment, and Dave saw his slow, incisive gestures as he gave his orders. Then the group split, and now Dave pulled the gun from the holster at his side and looked at it.

  He raised his glance again through the window, moving toward the door, and then he halted. The four men were seeking their horses, but Ivey remained standing. He shouted something to them, and they pulled out and headed toward the grade, their horses in a tired walk.

  Dave saw Rose come out of Bondurant’s now and turn toward home. She passed Ivey without looking at him, and Ivey regarded her back a long moment, and then turned upstreet toward the hotel, walking solidly and slowly. He crossed the side street, and Dave opened the door and looked out. The Bell hands were just past the hotel, and Frank mounted the hotel steps and went in.

  Dave waited in the doorway for many minutes, his patience edging him. A gunshot too soon now would call the Bell hands back into town, and he wanted Ivey alone. He waited, watching the hotel, smelling the warm dust of the street and the faint ammoniac smell of manure around the watering trough by the cottonwood nearby.

  He was standing thus in the doorway minutes later when Ivey came out of the hotel and down the steps. He glanced about him, as a man will entering upon a street, and then his glance touched the sheriff’s office. He walked on, stepping off the boardwalk, his glance still on the office, and then he halted abruptly in the middle of the cross street.

  Dave knew Frank had seen and recognized him, and he stepped out onto the walk and ducked under the tie rail, heading toward the middle of the street.

  Ivey, without speech or waiting, came toward him, and as he walked he brushed back the tail of his coat and pulled out his gun. And then, as if some overpowering impatience was driving him toward this moment, he started to run toward Dave, who stopped.

  Ivey, running heavily, lifted his gun and shot, and only then did he seem to realize that this was not sense. He halted, and Dave’s gun came up once and steadied and he fired. Ivey sat down abruptly, jarringly, and a surprised look came into his face, and he lifted his gun far past its natural arc and clubbed it down, and fired again, and dust geysered up at Dave’s feet.

  Dave stood utterly motionless then, his gun half lifted, and when he saw Ivey’s gun lifting a third time, he leveled and fired swiftly, mercilessly, and was already walking forward as Ivey fell over on his back.

  Dave stopped then; Ivey rolled over on his face, and shoved himself to his knees, and with a massive and dogged strength came to his feet and turned slowly. He was bleeding at the mouth now, and his black eyes were terrible with death, and again his gun started to lift.

  Dave watched it narrowly, and it came as high as Ivey’s hip, but its barrel was down slanting, and then Dave’s glance rose to Ivey’s face. Ivey’s head sank deep on his chest and he pitched to his knees and then full out, flat on his face, and his hat rolled off into the road and the dust roiled slowly around him.

  Dave went over to him and stood looking at him, and now he was aware of people running toward him. He felt a strong hand on his arm, and he turned to find Connie, her face buried in his sleeve, shaking with fright.

  Martin Bondurant turned Frank over and then let him fall back and looked up at Dave and shrugged. He was smiling, and the combination struck Dave as odd, and then he heard Connie say, “Oh, Dave, thank God!” And then, swift on the heel of it, “You’re hurt again,” and she tugged at his arm.

  Docilely now, Dave fell in beside her, and they went up the hotel steps and through the lobby and up to her room. She went in first and tried to guide him to a chair, and he spoke then.

  “I’m all right, Connie.”

  Connie was still trembling, and she turned away from him a moment, putting her hand to her forehead. “I—I can’t stop shaking,” she said.

  Dave looked at the gun he still held in his hand, and then rammed it in his waistband, and said quietly, “It’s all over, Connie, and you got what you wanted.”

  Something in his tone of voice, in the gray contempt of it, made Connie turn to look at him, and for a silent and terrible minute they regarded each other, and Connie said finally, “So you know?”

  Dave nodded and started for the door and Connie ran past him and put her back to the door. “Wait, Dave. Wait before you judge me. Just wait a little is all I ask.”

  Dave halted, and he watched Connie’s back straighten, and the cool desperation mount in her eyes.

  “Would it make any difference to you if you knew I was sorry, bitterly sorry?”

  “Difference?” Dave murmured.

  “Oh, look at us!” Connie said desperately. “Don’t you see what we’ve won, Dave? It’s happiness and freedom and the way we want to live!”

  “Why do you include me, Connie?”

  “But 66 will be as much yours as mine! We’re partners. We can get back our cattle and our ranch in the courts. Dad won’t fight us. We’ve got something big and fine, and what does it matter now, except we’ve got it.”

  “But you’ll have all that alone, Connie,” Dave said gently.

  “I don’t want it alone!” Connie said desperately. Her eyes were bright and imploring and humble, and Dave felt a hardness coiling within him.

  “So you don’t want it alone, Connie,” he observed. “Then I guess that squares everything. You don’t want it alone.”

  He moved toward the door and Connie stepped out of the way and Dave opened the door. “Good-by, Connie. Good luck.”

  Connie’s face was contained now, hard and beautiful and appealing. Only the eyes showed her misery as she said steadily, “I don’t always win, you see. Good-by, Dave.”

  He stepped out and went downstairs and into the street, turning down it. A crowd was gathered around Ivey, still in the street. Bondurant broke away from it and came up to Dave. “A few of us are riding out to Bell tonight. I think we’ll scatter that crew in short order.”

  Dave nodded and went on down past the Special, and when he got to Rose’s place, he turned in. He did not ring the bell, simply walked in.

  She had been sitting in a chair against the wall, and now, seeing him, she came slowly to her feet. The despair and sadness still lingered in her face, and only her pride covered it.

  Dave closed the door behind him and looked long and hungrily at her, and then his face altered gently, and he said, “That’s a beautiful dress, Rose.”

  She looked down at her skirt, her face stiff with uncertainty, and said, “It is, isn’t it?”

  “Would it do for a wedding dress?” Dave asked.

  For one brief second Rose looked at him, and the light came into her face and her dark eyes, and Dave held out his arm. She was against him, then, clinging tight to him, her body warm against him.

  About the Author

  Luke Short is the pen name of Frederick Dilley Glidden (1908–1975), the bestselling, award-winning author of over fifty classic western novels and hundreds of short stories. Renowned for their action-packed story lines, multidimensional characters, and vibrant dialogue, Glidden’s novels sold over thirty million copies. Ten of his novels, including Blood on the Moon, Coroner Creek, and Ramrod, were adapted for the screen. Glidden was the winner of a special Western Heritage Trustees Award and the Levi Strauss Golden Saddleman Award from the Western Writers of America.

  Born in Kewanee, Illinois, Glidden graduated in 1930 from the University of Missouri where he studied journalism. After working for several newspapers, he became a trapper in Canada and, later, an archaeologist’s assistant in New Mexico. His first story, “Six-Gun Lawyer,” was published in Cowboy Stories magazine in 1935 under the name F. D. Glidden. At the suggestion of his publisher, he used the pseudonym Luke Short, not realizing it was the name of a real gunman and gambler who was a friend of Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp. In addition to his p
rolific writing career, Glidden worked for the Office of Strategic Services during World War II. He moved to Aspen, Colorado, in 1946, and became an active member of the Aspen Town Council, where he initiated the zoning laws that helped preserve the town.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © renewed 1971 by Frederick D. Glidden

  Cover design by Andy Ross

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-3984-0

  This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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