The Kansas Fast Gun

by Arthur Kent

  Frome scowled. ‘I’ll see him when he gets back.’

  Justin said, ‘That’s your business. I’d hate to lose a friend, even if he no longer confides in me, so don’t try and take that crowd on all at once.’

  Frome grinned. ‘I’ll watch it.’ He got up. ‘I won’t invite you to lunch with me. You’ll ask too many questions, and it’ll keep you from your work. Besides, I’m taking Curly to lunch.’

  Justin watched him cross to the door. ‘Is that wise? You’re engaged to Hesta. You know how people talk?’

  Frome shrugged his shoulders as if the fact that people talked didn’t worry him.

  ‘By the way,’ Justin said, ‘I talked to George Broome.’

  Frome stopped, hand reaching for the door. ‘So?’

  ‘He doesn’t like Speakman. Hates his methods, and thinks that both miners and cattlemen can get on together if they compromise. He thinks like you, is a moderate, doesn’t believe in violence.’

  ‘So?’ Frome said impatiently.

  ‘So he doesn’t think Speakman was behind either the Grape-Taber murders or the attempt to nail you. He’s even been down to the undertaker’s and looked at the men you dropped. He doesn’t remember ever seeing them with Speakman.’

  ‘You’re not telling me anything,’ Frome said impatiently.

  Justin lifted his finger. ‘Broome made this point. That Speakman wouldn’t pull off a deal like that because it wouldn’t get him anywhere and might annoy the townsfolk. Broome said Speakman wants the town to back him against the cattlemen. Broome agrees that Speakman’s ruthless and will kill without compunction, but he says that if Speakman wanted to frighten the cattlemen, he’d burn a few ranches and kill stock – but well away from Plattsville.’

  Frome said, ‘It’s a free country, Broome can think what he likes.’

  Justin snapped, ‘If I was you, I’d do a bit more thinking. I’d forget Speakman for a moment, and try and think of some other powerful party who might like to see you dead.’

  Frome looked at the sheriff, saw the seriousness in the man’s expression. He began to close the door behind him. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said.

  Frome worked along the boardwalk through the crowd, crossed the street and pushed through the batwings of The Drovers. He crossed to the bar. As Mike came along, he said, ‘Curly?’

  Sturmer said: ‘She gave up waiting. Thought you weren’t coming. I heard about the shooting up at the hotel, but I’ve kept it from Curly. She went next door about twenty minutes ago.’

  Frome saluted and left the bar. He moved along to the café and saw Curly sitting at the table by the window. She saw him, smiled, and Frome moved to the door.

  He crossed the step, stopped and stiffened. Kyle Bennett and Hesta Le Roy were sitting at the next table to Curly across the gangway and overlooking the street. Frome hesitated for only a moment, wondering whether to call Curly out and go elsewhere. But it was too late; Curly was halfway through her meal; and Hesta had seen him.

  Frome turned his head away, entered the café, and slid behind the table facing Curly. The girl was smiling, her hand came forward, covering his. ‘What happened, did you oversleep?’

  Frome smiled, tight-lipped, and nodded. From the corner of his eyes, he saw that Bennett had put down his knife and fork and had twisted in his chair.

  Bennett had his guns buckled on, but Frome knew the showdown couldn’t come at this moment – not with Hesta and Curly present.

  Then Bennett was talking – talking loudly – complaining.

  Bennett thumped the table, gesticulating to the waitress. She came hurrying up. Curly looked around in surprise, wondered what was the matter with the man.

  The waitress said, ‘Is there something wrong, sir?’

  ‘Plenty!’ Bennett snapped. He indicated Hesta. ‘When I bring a lady to lunch here, I don’t expect that she should lunch in the presence of saloon harpies.’

  The waitress began to stutter. Impatiently, Bennett swung, pointing at Curly. ‘There. It’s disgraceful.’

  Curly whitened, moved back. Frome thought, ‘That does it,’ and launched himself. Bennett didn’t get the opportunity to say more. Frome cleared his own table and the gangway, reached Bennett and dragged him to his feet, and swung his left fist at Bennett’s jaw. Bennett smacked back through the plate glass window, and finished up on the boardwalk in a shower of cascading glass.

  Frome went down the step. He met Bennett as the man was coming up. Blood streaked Bennett’s face. He cursed at Frome and came forward, his right whipping through Frome’s defences and exploding on the rancher’s cheek.

  Frome skidded back, hit the door jamb. Then he darted at Bennett, ducked beneath the man’s stabbing fists and guard, and belted him twice on the chest. Bennett staggered back under the weight, hit the tie-rack, and ponies began to jerk at the poles.

  Bennett threw two punches. Frome stopped one, but the other came through, hitting Frome over the heart. It started old bruises there. Frome’s head jerked back as Bennett caught him on the point of the chin. Pain speared down his spine. Then he was moving in on Bennett again, using his head as a ram, determined to do all the damage he could and hang the consequences to himself. Bennett’s fists stabbed at his forehead and nose. Then Frome was in, cannoning against Bennett, turning the man slightly, carrying him to the wall with the weight of his charge, slamming him against it, then working both fists on Bennett’s chest and face.

  Then Bennett used his feet. Frome saw the kick coming, but he couldn’t get out of the way in time. His leg seemed to burst into flames as Bennett’s boot struck his knee. He felt the leg buckle beneath him, felt himself falling. The sidewalk came up, slamming the knee. Then Bennett was above him, a blood-stained, sweat-soaked face snarled at him. Frome saw the big punch coming. Bennett was putting everything he had into the throw. Frome swung hard to one side. The punch zipped past his head, dying, but Bennett was bringing over another ‘undertaker’s comforter’, swinging his body behind the fist.

  Frome collapsed his other leg, falling to the boards, and the punch broke air above him. Then, forcing power into his injured leg, he came up, just as Bennett was trying to retrieve his balance after loosening the punch. Frome had all the time he needed. The punch he brought up from the boards had been born down there. It crumbled Bennett’s faulty defences, scraped along his shoulder, and caught his skull. Pain peeled back along Frome’s arm, momentarily numbing it. Bennett grunted and skidded back against the wall. Frome went after him, his other fist working.

  Bennett’s hand lashed out blindly, fingers extended claw-like, probing for Frome’s eyes. His fingers tightened around Frome’s hair, jerking him forward. Frome went in and then he hit Bennett in the stomach. Bennett collapsed against the wall, shaking the building. Frome had all the time he needed. He stood off a yard, brought his fist over, and slammed it for Bennett’s chin.

  The wall rocked as Bennett bounced against it. Frome’s other fist came in, catching Bennett as he was folding, sideswiping him away. Bennett hit the boardwalk heavily, face down, hands extended, his face bloodied.

  Frome staggered to the hitchrack, folded against it for a minute, breathing heavily. The fight had attracted a crowd and Frome looked up into a sea of dancing faces.

  Frome saw Hesta’s buckboard just beyond the rack. He ordered a couple of watchers to help him. They lifted the unconscious Bennett and put him over the tailgate of the buckboard. Before turning away, Frome scooped up Bennett’s hat and threw it after him.

  CHAPTER 12

  Frome went back into the café. Somebody brushed by him, leaving. He saw Curly standing by the table, her hand to her mouth. He took her arm, leading her deeper into the café, found an empty table and sagged heavily into the chair.

  Curly sat opposite him. She was frowning. She produced a handkerchief, pushed it towards him. ‘There’s a cut on your forehead.’

  Frome took it, put it to the cut. A hammer seemed to be clanging in his head; he had difficulty in seeing s
traight. In a moment he laughed. ‘That was some fight. What do you think, Curly. Wasn’t it a beaut?’

  ‘Never mind what I think,’ Curly said sharply. ‘You should have ignored it. I’m used to such treatment.’

  Frome said, ‘Well, you’d better get used to not accepting such treatment.’

  ‘That was Hesta Le Roy, wasn’t it? The girl you’re engaged to?’

  Frome found suddenly that he didn’t care. ‘Was engaged to. I didn’t notice any ring on her finger.’

  ‘But then you weren’t looking at her, were you?’

  Frome smiled at the seriousness which showed on the girl’s face. ‘Did you notice the ring?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you looked, didn’t you?’ Frome smiled savagely. ‘You looked because something told you she might be the girl. So you looked to see if she wore an engagement ring.’ He bent forward, smiling. ‘Tell me, Curly, was she wearing a ring?’

  ‘She wore gloves, I ... I couldn’t see.’

  ‘To eat food – she wore gloves to eat food?’ Frome smiled.

  The waitress came up. She looked firm. Her hand went to her waist, she looked at Frome pointedly, and said, ‘What about the damage, Mister Frome?’

  Frome said, ‘Put it on the bill. Better still, go over and see my lawyer.’

  ‘Very good, Mister Frome.’ The waitress went away.

  Curly got up. ‘I’d better get back, Dave. My next show.’

  Frome got up. ‘Sorry I spoiled your lunch.’ He took the handkerchief away from his forehead.’ How do I look?’

  She smiled then. ‘You’ll pass.’

  Suddenly she was very beautiful and the words caught in Frome’s throat. She looked at him intensely for a moment, then she turned away. He followed her from the café. Kyle Bennett had gone; and so had Hesta. They turned into the alley leading to the side entrance of The Drovers. They stopped at the door, and Curly swung suddenly and looked up at him; and he placed his arms around Curly’s waist, sliding them beneath the cloak and lifting her towards him. They kissed and her arms went round his neck.

  Frome whispered, ‘I spoiled your lunch, so how about dinner tonight?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Curly began to break away – and then Frome heard footsteps approaching quickly. His hand sank for his gun. Mike Sturmer turned the corner. ‘Dave,’ he panted, ‘been looking all over for you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Your old cook, Long Will, just rode in. Three-four minutes ago. I’ve got him in my office. He says somebody’s rustled a whole herd of your cattle.’

  Frome found it hard to believe. ‘A herd?’

  Sturmer swung at the door. ‘Come this way ... I’ll take you to him... .’ Frome followed Sturmer along the corridor. Curly followed him. ‘He’s had a hard ride ... looks tuckered out ... I’ve given him brandy.’

  They swung into Sturmer’s office on the right of the corridor. The old cook came up on the settee as Frome entered. He was excited, ‘Dave, rustlers hit that herd of steers on the North Fork. The herd you were fattenin’ for that army contract.’

  Frome stopped before the cook. ‘You mean they’ve shifted all five hundred head of them?’

  ‘Every goddam one of them. How’s that for sauce, huh?’ Long Will said soberly. ‘Heard shots in the distance at first light. Came from the North Fork. Since you’ve got nobody left to look into things, I saddled up and headed that way. Found every critter gone.’

  Frome still found it hard to believe. He could understand somebody driving off a few head, but five hundred! He said, ‘Are you sure it was a rustle? If some shots had been fired that way, the herd might’ve stampeded.’

  The old cook was firm. ‘I can read signs. The herd moved off in a tight bunch. Vee formation, travelling fast, but travelling tightly bunched. Crossed the Teap tightly too. They were prodded by a crew, I tell you.’

  Frome said, ‘Hell, who thought anybody’d have the nerve to drive off a whole herd of frisky prime beeves.’

  Long Will straightened. ‘Don’t need a lot of nerve, Dave. There’s no crew left on the place. You weren’t there. Isn’t much an old windbag like me can do to hold the place together.’

  Frome said, ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I checked the sign to make sure. I followed all the way until the cattle crossed the Teap. Then, satisfied it was a rustle, I lit out for here fast, only stopping at the remuda herds to switch broncs on the way.’

  ‘The herd were moved across the Teap – which way from there?’

  ‘Swung right. Towards the Arrows. I’d guess they would be pushed through one of the passes and come out near Denton someway. Unless, of course, them rustlers turn back somewhere sharply, just to fool us.’

  ‘But they didn’t know there was anybody on the ranch, did they, so they won’t need to try any tricks?’ Frome countered.

  ‘That’s a fact,’ Long Will said. ‘Else they wouldn’t have used gunfire to roll the herd. Nor hit them at daylight. If the wind hadn’t been in the right direction, I doubt if I would’ve heard the gunfire, any how.’

  Frome nodded. He was thinking. ‘If I start right now, I should reach Denton late tonight or in the early hours of tomorrow.’

  ‘You’ll need to ride a couple of broncs to death to do it,’ Long Will said. ‘You’d better get Sam Justin and a posse.’

  Frome said: ‘The posse would move too slow. Not many people know the Arrows like I do. If I go alone, I stand more chance of finding fresh mounts en route. I can worry about a posse when I reach Denton. Marshal Keester can form one from there.’

  Long Will moved. ‘That’s a good idea. Let’s get moving.’

  Frome said, ‘You’ve done enough riding. You stay here.’

  The old cook went to protest, but Frome was already heading for the door. Mike Sturmer and Curly followed him. Sturmer said, ‘Do you think it’s wise to do this alone?’

  ‘As soon as I reach Denton, I’ll get help,’ Frome countered. ‘I won’t find trouble. The rustlers figure that they’ve got nothing to worry about.’

  Frome was thinking that the rustlers had decided he was dead. He had now linked the rustle with the attempt on his life. The herd were moving towards Denton, and the men who had tried to kill him – and had possibly killed Grape and Taber – had used O Diamond horses. It looked as if they came in from Denton way to get him and the faithful Matt Grape, and drive off his herd, knowing that the rest of his crew had joined Glinton Le Roy’s outfit and that there was nobody to stop them. Then Justin had been right. It wasn’t Speakman! Justin had told him to look for some other powerful party who wanted him dead. Speakman was a mining man. He wouldn’t be interested in five hundred head of cattle, nor particularly in the fifteen thousand dollars they would bring.

  With Matt Grape and himself dead and out of the way, the rustlers could move off the prime beef without anybody to stop them. They could be out of the state and possibly return for further stock before the losses were noted. It would be months before Hesta Le Roy, to whom Frome had left his property in his will, would discover that the herds had been bled.

  But who was behind it? Obviously a cattleman. Obviously, too, somebody who knew Frome and his ranch well. Farrow had been in it, but Farrow didn’t have the brains to organize a steal like this. Who then?

  Frome interrupted his thoughts, noticing that Curly had followed him. He smiled absently, ‘Sorry I’ll have to postpone that date for dinner.’

  She was suddenly shy. ‘Would you like me to ride with you, Dave?’

  He chuckled. ‘Not on this trip, Curly.’

  She blushed angrily, ‘I can ride, and I can shoot.’

  He laughed, bent and kissed her, and then stepped into the alley, crossed the street, and entered the livery. He ignored the Broken Arrow bronc he’d used to ride into town. Instead, he selected a powerful corn-fed pony, hired it from the stable, saddled and rode to the hotel. Karno had his Winchester behind his counter. The manager looked miserable. Frome smiled, ‘Sorry about t
he door, Karno, but it wasn’t my slugs which did it.’

  Karno held his smile in place until Frome had gone. Minutes later he had left the last house behind him, crossed the winding dried out Muleshoe River, and pushed the pony into a mile-eating lope across undulating, never-changing grasslands.

  His mind returned to the problem of whom, beside Speakman, could possibly want him dead and whom would be interested and know enough to steal his cattle. He eliminated the small ranchers one by one in his mind. And then he smiled savagely as he settled on Kyle Bennett’s name. He played around with the idea, fitting it into the pattern of the incidents, pushing pieces together. And he was surprised and finally horrified by what he arrived at.

  It was more than just murder and a cattle rustle. Much more.

  Now he recalled that it was Bennett who’d first seen the body on the Lone Pine. He recalled also that Bennett’s entire attitude preceding the finding of Denny had been keyed to expect trouble. Bennett knew trouble was coming for the very reason that he’d started it. Frome realized as the thought passed through his mind that he had no evidence to support this suspicion. But when he looked into the matter further, he saw that Kyle Bennett would be one of the first to benefit by Denny Le Roy’s death – and Frome’s.

  Denny Le Roy was Glinton’s only son who would have inherited the ranch one day. With Denny dead, Hesta inherited. Whoever married Hesta therefore would virtually own the Double Star. Hitherto, Kyle Bennett had been out of the running for Hesta’s hand, but with Frome dead, he would be a strong favourite. Moreover, since he had no other kin, Frome had left a will leaving all his belongings and property to his fiancee Hesta Le Roy in the event of his death. With Denny Le Roy out of the way, and then Frome, Kyle Bennett stood a better than favourite’s chance of taking over the vast grasslands and nearly thirty thousand head of cattle which comprised the double spreads.

  The scope and simplicity of the plan astonished Frome. He wondered if he was just imagining it, he sought for evidence in the happenings of the last day or two to support the theory. There was little to find. There was the fact that the gunman, Martin Talbot, had been anxious to kill him before either Glinton or Hesta could interfere. But that was hardly evidence enough. There was also the fact that the assassins and the rustlers seemed to know not only Frome’s movements but the grazing section of the five hundred head of prime beef. Again not evidence enough, for although Kyle Bennett would know that, Farrow also knew it, and Farrow had been killed while riding with the men.