The Kansas Fast Gun

by Arthur Kent

  Frome snapped, ‘Button up, Farrow, there’s a lady present.’

  The boy swung, head jutting. ‘Why, look at that, old yeller-belly telling me to button up. Now you look here, Mister Gun-Shy, I’ve got me a rabbit gun, and you’d better run and hide on account you’re a rabbit.’

  Frome said, ‘You’ve got thirty seconds to ride, Farrow.’

  ‘I’m going, Gun-Shy, and I ain’t the only one. Nobody’ll work for you much longer.’ He saw Hesta in the doorway. ‘Nor marry you, I reckon.’

  ‘Right, you’ve said your piece. Now ride.’

  Farrow grinned, brought the rifle up. He didn’t finish the move. Frome lunged from the step and hit the pony in the side. The horse jack-knifed and came up on its forelegs, spilling the drunk from the saddle.

  The spooked animal skidded away. Frome picked up the rifle, and began to jerk the cartridges from the magazine, spilling them on the ground. Then he threw the empty repeater into the brush, dragged the shaken Farrow up by his shirt front, and snapped, ‘Start walking, Farrow. Don’t let me find you on my land again.’

  He pushed Farrow. The boy staggered back, regained balance, cursed loudly, then came at Frome, his fists chopping. Frome blocked two punches, taking them on the arm, and then he saw his chance and sent a right through Farrow’s defence. There was a meaty smack as his fist connected on the point of the boy’s chin, and Farrow folded.

  Long Will came up. Men came spilling from the bunkhouse. The men looked sullen. There wasn’t the usual laughter and talking which followed a fist-fight.

  Frome said to the cook, ‘Get Farrow to a bunk. When he comes round, put him on a gentle pony towards town.’

  Frome returned to the cabin. Hesta Le Roy followed him, a question taking shape on her lips. Finally she said, ‘Why did you hit him, Dave? He’s a boy, and he’s drunk.’

  ‘Big enough to threaten me with a gun, though.’

  She moved to face him. She said, ‘Were you trying to prove something? Were you trying to show me how brave you were by knocking down a drunken boy?’

  Frome turned away from her, crossed to a cabinet, and poured a whiskey.

  CHAPTER 3

  It was a thing you couldn’t see, but Frome knew it was there, a silent, brittle barrier which had cut him completely off from the girl facing him across the table.

  Long Will noticed it when he brought the dishes, and returned later with coffee to find his food uneaten.

  Frome was fashioning a cigarette, seeking for some way to break the barrier, when he heard the hoofbeats. He got up, moved to the door, and the horsemen came galloping down into the valley, swinging in around the corral, and massing before his cabin.

  Broken Arrow men came spilling from the bunkhouse. The combined lights of bunkhouse, cabin and cookshack shaped the men in the saddles. Sweat glistened on the flanks of their hard-ridden ponies.

  A bulky man swung from a leading horse, and Frome recognized him as Glinton Le Roy. A tall slight man in dandified clothes dismounted next to him, and Frome recognized Kyle Bennett. A third man, also dismounting, was Frome’s ramrod, Matt Grape.

  Le Roy’s voice was high. ‘You seen Denny?’ he said.

  ‘Not for several days,’ said Frome.

  Le Roy grasped Frome’s arm, and the rancher saw the worry which lined the old man’s face. ‘He rode off at sun-up, and he ain’t back,’ he stammered.

  Frome was puzzled by the concern. Denny was a young man. He had wild oats to sow and there was a girl in a saloon at Plattsville that he was friendly with. But Le Roy’s next remark brought a groan from Hesta and started Frome worrying.

  Le Roy said, ‘He went up to the Arrows again to spy on them miners. He knows it ain’t safe to stay up there after sundown, and he’s home well before dark.’

  ‘But hell,’ Frome began. He didn’t finish it. Tightening his grasp on Frome’s arm, Le Roy continued, ‘And your boys, Dave, said they heard a shot in the hills. That right?’

  ‘One shot,’ Frome said. ‘We figured a miner hunting some supper.’

  ‘But don’t you see it, Dave? Denny was up there at the mine. Them sonsofbitches found him, they’d plug him for sure.’

  Frome knew that Le Roy was correct. ‘His bronc probably went lame. That’s rocky country. We’d better ride out and look for him. I’ll saddle up.’

  Kyle Bennett spoke for the first time. Frome saw the sneer on his fine-featured face. ‘We’ll need fresh broncs, too,’ he said.

  ‘How many?’

  Bennett said sarcastically. ‘Why, you can count, Dave. A round dozen for us. And then there’s your boys.’

  Frome hid his irritation. He didn’t see why a dozen or more men were needed to look for Denny – especially in the treacherously rocky Arrows. ‘Sorry, Kyle, but there isn’t more than a half a dozen broncs in the corral.’

  ‘Times like these,’ Bennett said smoothly, ‘a man should keep a score or more in the home corral.’

  Before Frome could ask what Bennett meant by ‘times like these’, Matt Grape said, ‘I’ll take half the boys to the north meadow. There’s thirty-forty broncs grazing there.’

  Frome nodded to Matt, and the foreman swung away with half the men.

  Le Roy followed Hesta into the cabin, but Kyle Bennett, rolling a cigarette, stopped by Frome on the veranda. He said silkily, ‘I heard you call for a horse, but I didn’t hear you call for a gun.’

  Frome looked at Bennett through narrowed eyes. He didn’t like what he saw. Bennett was a dandy with a quick gun. Blond of hair, too handsome and grey of eye. His reputation as lady-killer was only second to that of gun duellist. They said Bennett was the fastest gun in the county, but Frome didn’t agree. He knew somebody who was faster.

  Frome said, ‘That’s right, I didn’t call for a gun.’

  Bennett smiled thinly, but before he could reply, Le Roy had stepped back on to the veranda. The old rancher stopped before Frome, the man who would be his son-in-law. ‘I didn’t want him going up there, Dave, honest I didn’t.’

  Bennett said, ‘Don’t blame yourself, Glinton. Pity there aren’t more with Denny’s guts in this county.’

  Frome said, ‘What did he expect to find out which he couldn’t have got from a drunken miner in town for the price of a drink? Whose idea was it to send him up there?’ He felt the anger boil within him. He swung at Bennett. ‘Was it your idea?’

  Bennett avoided an answer. Looking at Le Roy, he snapped, ‘If they’ve harmed him, they’ll get hell. We’ll string ’em up, even it it takes us a year.’

  ‘Mighty big talk, Kyle,’ Frome said softly.

  Bennett stiffened. The palms of his hands rubbed against the pearl-handled grips of his pair of six-guns. It was as if his palms itched.

  Long Will came across from the corral. ‘Horses are ready!’

  Frome led the way to the corral and swung aboard a paint pony, turning it into the press of riders. A yard away, Bennett stepped into a saddle, then bent to talk to a Broken Arrow cowboy. His words reached Frome. ‘Ain’t you Broken Arrow boys riding?’ he asked.

  ‘Isn’t enough broncs, Mister Bennett,’ came the answer. ‘Besides, we ain’t allowed to pack guns.’

  Bennett sneered. ‘High time you boys joined a good outfit. If war comes, I’ll be hiring boys at gun wages for Luke Benson. Spread the word, won’t you?’

  The Broken Arrow man said eagerly, ‘I sure will, Mister Bennett.’

  Frome pushed the paint through the press, stringing out into the lead, swinging up the valley track, then heading across prairie towards the Arrows, which towered black triangles beneath a curtain of stars.

  Hesta Le Roy, standing besides Long Will, heard the riders go, her knuckles showed white as she gripped the rail. ‘It isn’t true, is it, Will?’ she asked.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘That Dave’s a coward?’

  Long Will mumbled, ‘I don’t rightly know the answer to that.’ He hobbled quickly across to the cookshack.

  They crossed the
grasslands, crashed through timber, swung along a series of hogbacked ridges which reared up from the ground like blisters and thundered across the rock-strewn approach to the Lone Pine Canyon.

  Le Roy called a halt at the bottle-neck mouth, and stood up in his stirrups. A lone horseman swung from a stand of timber. ‘That you, Mister Le Roy?’

  ‘Any sign of my boy?’ Le Roy snapped.

  Frome saw the silhouette of rider, horse and carbine cradled in his arms. ‘Nobody’s come out, Mister Le Roy,’ he said.

  Bennett said, ‘There’s only one other way. The Plattsville Road. But even if he crossed the hills, Denny wouldn’t take it. Too many shovel-heads use it.’

  Le Roy’s voice broke as he ordered the lone rider to take them to the spot from which Denny Le Roy had watched the mining camp.

  They swung down into the canyon, using its rim to guide them for the moon had not yet appeared. They crossed the scrub-grown basin, the beat of hoofs cannoning from the tall canyon walls. They veered left, then began to climb. The only sounds were the bite of steel-shod hoofs on stone, the hard breathing of men and horses and the curses of the men as the horses slid on the loose shale.

  The track narrowed and the leader advised Le Roy to continue on foot. They left the horses and moved up the steepening track in single file.

  Then the leader stopped, struck a match, and indicated a six-foot wide crevice. ‘Denny would keep his bronc here.’

  Bennett entered the crevice, striking a match, and reappeared a minute later. ‘Nobody there now, but there’s recent horse droppings.’

  They moved on, and Frome noticed that Bennett was hefting his carbine.

  The climb became steeper. Panting and sweating, they reached a flat, disc-shaped plateau, and moved across it to its furthest edge, and the leader pointed over the edge. ‘Denny watched from here. Look over, and you can see the miners’ camp and the diggings.’

  They bent to the rim and looked down on the silent camp. A few campfires burnt, a man was singing, nothing else. Suddenly the leader jerked them around, his voice edged with hysteria. ‘Mister Le Roy, there’s fresh blood in this hollow.’

  Frome, Le Roy and Bennett moved into the hollow. Bennett struck a match. They saw the five-inch blood stain on the polished surface of the rock. Frome thought of the shot he’d heard that evening; Le Roy groaned; Bennett touched the pool with a finger. ‘That’s a lot of blood,’ he said grimly.

  A voice reached them from across the canyon. A challenge. Bennett dropped the match, smashing his boot on it. The voice came again, and the hills took up the sound and turned it into a series of echoes.

  There was a metallic smack as if a rifle barrel had hit rock. Bennett snapped, ‘Mine sentry,’ and brought his carbine up. Le Roy dragged the gun down. ‘Don’t fire, Kyle. They might have my boy.’

  The warning came once more. The men didn’t move. Then the shot came. Flame stabbed across the plateau from the adjoining hill. A slug skidded across rimrock with a screeching sound. Men dropped; Bennett cursed and snatched the rifle from Le Roy’s grasp. He aimed at the point of the rifle flash, and fired.

  Le Roy snapped: ‘You fool! Let’s get out of here. Think of my boy!’

  They scrambled from the hollow and flooded back across the plateau. Two more shots cracked out from the sentry. They slipped and slid down the narrow track and reached the horses. Bennett snapped, ‘Let’s get our carbines, get back there, and give them hell.’

  ‘They might have my boy alive,’ Le Roy said. ‘Let’s ride. We’ll send Sheriff Justin in tomorrow.’

  They mounted and turned down track. It was easier going for the moon was up. They hit the canyon floor, and put their reluctant ponies into a gallop. It was Kyle Bennett who brought them to a halt with a shout. His arm jack-knifed towards the lone pine from which the canyon took its name. ‘What’s wrong with the old pine? Looks as if it’s sprouted a new trunk.’

  Fear raced along Frome’s spine. ‘That’s no trunk,’ he said savagely, ‘that’s human. Somebody’s been hanged there!’

  They swung and quirted and spurred new life into their spent animals. They covered ground fast, lashing the animals, and reached the wall in a ragged line. Frome and Bennett stepped from saddles on to a track and scrambled to the rim. They reached the pine and Frome swung the stiffening body. He looked up into the twisted features of Denny Le Roy.

  From across the canyon floor, there came the drum of hoofs. Matt Grape was bringing up the rest of the boys.

  CHAPTER 4

  They sat ponies in a circle. Denny lay beneath a shroud of slickers on a shelf of rock. Several men held torches of corded grass. Glinton Le Roy silently looked down at his son.

  A horse pawed at the stone floor. Flame sizzled through damp grass. A horse snorted. There were no other sounds. Frome watched Le Roy, and Bennett. Anger against Bennett was a hard core in his throat. He felt certain that it was Bennett who had persuaded Denny to spy on the miners’ camp. And what had Denny hoped to find out? He could have bribed a shovel-head in Plattsville for as much information as was obtainable from looking down at the camp from the rimrock.

  Frome swung his pony and leaned towards Matt Grape. ‘Matt, go fetch Sam Justin,’ he whispered.

  Bennett heard him. He snarled, ‘We don’t want the sheriff!’

  Frome said, ‘This is murder. Sam’s to be told.’

  Bennett sneered, ‘We’ll tell him a month from now. This is our business. We’ll handle it.’

  Frome turned to Le Roy. ‘It’s what Glinton says that counts.’

  Bennett swung to Le Roy. ‘What do we do, Glinton? Do we tell that mine-loving sheriff, or do we handle this ourselves?’

  Frome snapped, ‘Watch it, Bennett, Sam’s a friend of mine.’

  ‘First thing we bury Denny,’ Le Roy said; ‘then we ride after the sonsofbitches who murdered him.’

  Frome bent forward. ‘Glinton, leave it for Sam.’

  Le Roy was against it, Frome knew that. The old man wouldn’t answer him directly.

  ‘If Sam says ride against the miners, that’s OK. But he’s got to know,’ Frome said.

  Le Roy said: ‘I’m not saying a word against Sam. But he’ll need proof. If he gets it, them mine companies have slick lawyers. He’ll never get a court conviction, Dave. We’ll handle this in our way.’

  Frome said grimly, ‘I’m sending word to Justin.’ He swung at Matt Grape. ‘I gave you an order, Matt.’

  The ramrod hesitated, torn between conflicting loyalties – his loyalty to his friend and to the cattlemen.

  Le Roy moved towards Matt Grape. ‘Before you ever worked for Dave, you were a cattleman, Matt. You know it won’t be any good bringing in the sheriff. You also know what these miners are up to. Dave’s upset. He’ll see it our way at daybreak.’

  Grape looked unhappy, looking first at Frome and then at Le Roy.

  Frome said, ‘Matt, in this matter follow your own conscience. If you don’t ride for Sam, I won’t hold it against you.’

  Grape extended a pleading hand. ‘I don’t figure it wise to tell Sam, Dave. Anyhow, he can’t get out here until daylight.’

  Le Roy swung towards Kyle Bennett. ‘Spread the word, Kyle, that I’m hiring guns. I’m paying eighty a month, and I’m providing new guns and blooded horses.’

  ‘Right!’ Bennett swung to the mounted men. ‘Three-four of you ride across the county and spread the word.’ He sneered. ‘And don’t overlook the bunkhouse at the Broken Arrow.’ He turned to Matt Grape. ‘I’m sure Luke Benson would like you to ride with us, Matt.’

  Grape pondered that. He looked at Frome.

  Frome said, ‘You’re a free agent in this matter, Matt.’

  Grape said, ‘Thanks for the offer, Kyle, but I’d prefer to ride for Glinton’s outfit, if he’ll have me.’

  Le Roy said, ‘Glad to have you, Matt. You can ramrod a new crew.’ He hesitated. ‘You can also carry out a tough job for me, Matt. Ride to the Double Star. Tell my wife ... Hesta.’

 
; Grape only nodded, and backed his pony away, turning along the edge of the canyon. Four men swung after him to carry out Kyle Bennett’s instructions of gathering men.

  Le Roy turned away from the slab of stone on which his son rested. He stepped into his saddle, and turned to Bennett. ‘You’re the only male kin, I have. I’d like you to forget our differences in the past, Kyle, and come back to ramrod for me?’

  ‘I’ll check with Luke,’ Bennett said. ‘He won’t object. Thanks, Glinton.’

  Le Roy said: ‘This is what I want you to do at sun-up. Take a buckboard and escort to Plattsville and fetch a case of those new sixty-sixty Winchesters from Gulick’s store. Bring plenty of ammunition. Also a couple of dozen Colts with shellbelts.’

  A rider nearby snapped, ‘Somebody’s coming!’

  They swung, looking across the canyon floor.

  Another rider said: ‘Can’t see him, but can hear him. He’s singing.’

  A voice reached Frome, distant yet recognizable. A man singing.

  Le Roy said, ‘Let’s look into it.’

  They swung and spurred across the floor, spreading out then curving in towards the lone rider they eventually saw in the canyon’s centre. Long before they reached him, the man had stopped, peering forward anxiously from the back of his pony. They slackened speed, closed in on the man and ringed him.

  The man looked from one gaunt-visored cowpuncher to another, and, frightened by their silence, he stuttered, ‘What – what is it?’

  Bennett said: ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Me?’ the man relaxed. ‘Name’s Tony Wolf. Been on a drunk. Had a dandy time.’

  ‘And what are you doing in the canyon this late?’ Bennett asked.

  ‘Going home.’ Wolf didn’t like Bennett’s tone of voice.

  ‘Where’s home, under a goddam rock?’

  Wolf stiffened. ‘The mine – I work at the mine.’

  ‘Funny way to get to the mine. Difficult for a sober man at night, let alone a drunk.’

  Wolf shrugged. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have come this way. But I was drunker than I am now. It seemed a good idea an hour ago.’