Collection 1986 - The Trail To Crazy Man (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  The realization left Loren Keith icy cold. Dornie Shaw was going to kill him.

  He had been an utter fool ever to allow this to happen. Why had he left the others and come off with Shaw? Why hadn’t he killed him long since, from behind if need be, for the man was like a mad dog. He was insane, completely insane.

  “What’s on your mind, Shaw?” Without realizing it, he spoke as he might to a subordinate. Shaw was not conscious of the tone. He was looking at Keith’s belt line. The colonel, he reflected, had been taking on a little weight here lately.

  “Why, just what I say. You’ve come as far as your trail takes you, Colonel. I can’t say I’m sorry.”

  “Burwick won’t like this. We’re two of the men on whom he relies.”

  “Uh-huh, that’s the way it was. It ain’t now. Back yonder,” he jerked his head toward the butte, “he sort of implied he’d got hisself one too many partners.” He shoved his hat back a little. “You want to try for your gun? It won’t help you none, but you can try.”

  Keith was frightened. Every muscle within him seemed to have tightened until he could not move, yet he knew he was going to. But at the last, he had something to say, and it came from some deep inner conviction. “Kedrick will kill you, Dornie. He’s going to win. He’ll beat Burwick, too.”

  Suddenly, he remembered something. It had been only a fleeting expression on Dornie Shaw’s face, but something. “Dornie!” he shot the word out with the force of desperation. “There behind you! The grulla!”

  Shaw whirled, his face white, an almost animal-like fury on it. As he turned, Keith, gasping hoarsely and triumphantly, grabbed for his gun. He got it, and the gun swung up, but he had never coped with a fighter like Shaw. In the flashing instant that he whirled and found nothing behind him, Dornie hurled himself backward. Keith’s shot split wide the air where he had stood an instant before, and then Dornie himself fired from the ground, fired once and then a second time.

  Keith caught the bullet through the midsection, right where that extra weight had been gathering, and he took the second one in the same place.

  He fell, half in the trickle of water that was Salt Creek. Feeding shells into his gun, Dornie Shaw stared down at the glazing eyes. “How did you know?” he asked sullenly. “How did you know?”

  XIV

  Fessenden rode well forward in the saddle, his great bulk carried easily with the movement of the horse. His wide face was somber with thought and distaste. Like the others, the wife of Taggart had affected him as nothing else could have. He was a hard man who had done more than his share of killing, but he had killed men ruthlessly, thoughtlessly, in mortal combat where he himself might die as easily.

  Several times before he had hired his gun, but each time in cattle or sheep wars or struggles with equals, men as gunwise as he himself. Never before had he actually joined in a move to rob men of their homes. Without conscience in the usual sense, he had it in this case, for the men who moved west, regardless of their brand, were largely men in search of homes. Before, he had thought little of their fight. Several times he had helped to drive nesters from cattle range, and to him that was just and logical, for cows needed grass, and people lived on beef, and most of the range country wasn’t suited to farming, anyway.

  But in this case there was a difference, he now realized, thinking of it for the first time. In this case men were not being driven off for cattle, but only for profit. To many, the line was a fine one to draw; to Fessenden and his like, once the matter was seen in its true light, that line became a gap, an enormous one.

  Actually he rode in a state of shock. The victory Keith had wanted had seemed so near. The taking of the few left in the canyon had seemed simple. His qualms against the use of dynamite he had shrugged off, if uncomfortably. He had gone into the canyon with the others to get the thing over with, to get his money and get out. And then, long before they expected it, came that smashing, thunderous volley, made more crashing by the close canyon walls, more destructive by the way the attackers were channeled by the boulders.

  Shock started the panic, and distaste for the whole affair kept some of them, at least, on the move. Yet it was hard to believe that Clauson and Poinsett were dead, that Brokow had vanished, that Lee Goff was gone. For alone of the group, Goff had told Fessenden he was leaving. He had not needed to tell him why.

  Behind him rode the Mixus boys, somber with disappointment at the failure of the attack. They had no qualms about killing and no lines to draw even at the killing of women. They were in no true sense fighting men; they were butchers. Yet even they realized the change that had come over the group. What had become of Brokow or Goff they did not know, only that disintegration had set in and that these men had turned into a snarling pack of wolves venting their fury and their hatred on each other.

  Mustang lay quiet when they rode into town. It was the quiet before the storm, and the town, like that cattle buyer, who had turned back to Durango, sensed the coming fury of battle. No women were on the street, and only a few hardy souls loitered at the bars or card tables. The chairs before the St. James were deserted, and Clay Allison had ridden back to his home ranch, drunk and ugly.

  An almost Sunday peace lay over the town when Fessenden drew up before the Mustang Saloon and swung down from his weary horse. Slapping his hat against his leg to beat off the dust, Fessenden stood like a great shaggy bull and surveyed the quiet of the street. He was too knowing a western man not to recognize the symptoms of disaster. Clapping his hat all awry upon his shaggy head, he shoved his bulk through the doors and moved to the bar.

  “Rye,” he said, his voice booming in the cavernous interior. His eyes glinted around the room and then back to the bartender.

  That worthy could no longer restrain his curiosity. “What’s happened?” he asked, swallowing.

  _______

  A GLINT OF irony came into the hard eyes of the gunman. “Them squatters squatted there for keeps,” he said wryly, “an’ they showed us they aim to stay put.” He tossed off his drink. “All Hades busted loose.” Briefly he explained. “You’d have figured there was a thousand men in that neck of the rocks when they opened up. The thing that did it was the unexpectedness of it, like steppin’ on a step in the dark when it ain’t there.”

  He poured another drink. “It was that Kedrick,” he said grimly. “When I seen him shift to the other side I should’ve lit a shuck.”

  “What about Keith?”

  “He won’t be back.”

  They turned at the new voice and saw Dornie Shaw standing in the doorway, smiling. Still smiling he walked on in and leaned against the bar. “Keith won’t be back,” he said. “He went for his gun out on Salt Creek.”

  The news fell into a silent room. A man at a table shifted his feet, and his chair creaked. Fessenden wet his lips and downed his second drink. He was getting out of town, but fast.

  “Seen that girl come in, short time back,” the bartender said suddenly, “that Duane girl. Thought she’d gone over to the other side.”

  Dornie’s head lifted. His eyes brightened and then shadowed. He downed his own drink and walked jauntily to the door. “Stick around, Fess. I’ll be back.” He grinned. “I’ll collect for both of us from the old man.”

  The bartender looked at Fessenden. “Reckon he’ll bring it if he does?”

  The big gunman nodded absently. “Sure! He’s no thief! Why, that kid never stole a thing in his life. He don’t believe in it. An’ he won’t lie or swear—but he’ll shoot the heart out of you an’ smile right in your face while he’s doing it.”

  The show had folded. The roundup was over. There was nothing to do now but light out. Fessenden knew he should go, but a queer apathy had settled over him, and he ordered another drink, letting the bartender pour it. The liquor he drank seemed now to fall into a cavern without bottom, having no effect.

  _______

  ON THE OUTSKIRTS of town, Tom Kedrick reined in. “We’ll keep together,” he said quietly. “We want
Keith, Shaw, Burwick, the Mixus boys, and Fessenden. There are about four others that you will know whom I don’t know by name. Let’s work fast and make no mistakes.

  “Pit, you take Dai and two men and go up the left side of the street. Take no chances. Arrest them if you can. We’ll try them, and,” his face was grim, “if we find them guilty they’ll have just two sentences—leave the country or hang. The Mixus boys and Shaw,” he said, “will hang. They’ve done murder.”

  He turned in his saddle and glanced at the tall Texan. “Come on, Shad,” he said quietly. “We’ll take two men and the right side of the street, which means the livery stable, the St. James and the Mustang.”

  Kedrick glanced over at Laine. “Pit,” he said, “if you run into Allison or Ketchum, better leave ’em alone. We don’t want ’em.”

  Laine’s face was grave. “I ain’t huntin’ ’em,” he said grimly, “but if they want it, they can have it.”

  The parties rode into town and swung down on their respective sides of the street. Laredo grinned at Kedrick, but his eyes were sober. “Nobody wants to cross Laine today,” he said quietly. “The man’s in a killin’ mood. It’s his sister.”

  “Wonder what will happen when they meet?”

  “I hope they don’t,” Shad said, “she’s a right pretty sort of gal, only money crazy.”

  The two men with them stood hesitant, waiting for orders. Both were farmers. One carried a Spencer .56, the other a shotgun. Shad glanced at them. “Let these hombres cover the street, Tom,” he suggested. “You take the St. James, an’ I’ll take the stable.”

  Kedrick hesitated. “All right,” he agreed finally. “But take no chances, boy.”

  _______

  LAREDO GRINNED AND waved a negligent hand and walked through the wide door of the stable. Inside, he paused, cold and seemingly careless, actually as poised and deadly as a coiled rattler. He had already seen Abe Mixus’ sorrel pony and guessed the two drygulchers were in town. He walked on in a step and saw the barrel of a rifle push through the hay.

  He lunged right and dove into a stall, drawing his gun as he went, and ran full tilt into the other Mixus! Their bodies smashed together, and Mixus, caught off balance, went down and rolled over. He came up clawing for a gun. Laredo kicked the gun from under his hand and sent it spinning into the wide open space between the rows of stalls.

  With a kind of whining cry, Bean Mixus sprang after it, slid to his knees, and got up, turning. Laredo Shad stood tall and dark, just within the stall, and as Mixus turned like a cornered rat and swung his gun around, Laredo Shad fired, his two shots slamming loud in the stillness of the huge barn. Bean Mixus fell dead.

  The rifle bellowed, and a shot ripped the stall stanchion near his head. Laredo lunged into the open, firing twice more at the stack of straw. The rifle jerked and then thundered again, but the shot went wild. Laredo dove under the loft where Abe Mixus was concealed and fired two more shots through the roof over his head where he guessed the killer would be lying.

  Switching his guns, he holstered the empty one and waited. The roof creaked some distance away, and he began to stalk the escaping Mixus, slipping from stall to stall. Suddenly, a back door creaked and a broad path of light shot into the darkness of the stable. Laredo lunged to follow—too late.

  The farmer outside with the shotgun was the man Sloan. As Abe Mixus lunged through the door to escape, they came face to face, at no more than twenty feet of distance. Abe had his rifle at his hip, and he fired. The shot ripped through the water trough beside Sloan, and the farmer squeezed off the left-hand barrel of his shotgun.

  The solid core of shot hit Mixus in the shoulder and neck, knocking him back against the side of the door, his long face drawn and terror stricken, his neck and shoulder a mass of blood that seemed to well from a huge wound. He fought to get his gun up, but Sloan stepped around, remembering Bob McLennon’s death and the deaths of Steelman and Slagle. The other barrel thundered, and a sharp blast of flame stabbed at Abe Mixus.

  Smashed and dead, the killer sagged against the door-jamb, his old hat falling free, his face pillowed in the gray, blood-mixed dust.

  Silence hung heavy in the wake of the shots. Into that silence Laredo Shad spoke. “Hold it, Sloan!” He stepped through the door, taking no glance at the fallen man. “The other one won’t hang, either,” he said. “They were both inside.”

  The two men drew aside, Sloan’s face gray and sick. He had never killed a man before and wanted never to again. He tried to roll a smoke, but his fingers trembled. Shad took the paper and tobacco from him and rolled it. The farmer looked up, shamefaced. “Guess I’m yellow,” he said. “That sort of got me.”

  The Texan looked at him gloomily. “Let’s hope it always does,” he said. He handed him the cigarette. “Try this,” he told him. “It will make you feel better. Wonder how Kedrick’s comin’?”

  “Ain’t heard nothin’!”

  Pit Laine stood in a door across the street. “Everythin’ all right?” he called.

  “Yeah,” the other farmer called back, “only you don’t have to look for the Mixus boys no more. They ain’t gonna be around.”

  _______

  CAPTAIN TOM KEDRICK had walked up the street and turned into the door of the St. James Hotel. The wide lobby was still, a hollow shell, smelling faintly of old tobacco fumes and leather. The wrinkled clerk looked up and shook his head. “Quiet today,” he said. “Nobody around. Ain’t been no shootin’ in days.”

  Guns thundered from down the street, then again and again. Then there was silence and then the two solid blasts of the shotgun.

  Both men listened, and no further sound came. A moment later Pit Laine called out and the farmer answered. The clerk nodded. “Same town,” he said. “Last couple of days I been wonderin’ if I wasn’t back in Ohio. Awful quiet lately,” he said, “awful quiet.”

  Tom Kedrick walked down the hall and out the back door. He went down the weathered steps and stopped on the grass behind the building. There was an old, rusty pump there, and the sun was hot on the backs of the buildings. He walked over to the pump and worked the handle. It protested, whining and groaning at the unaccustomed work and finally, despairing of rest, threw up a thick core of water that splashed in the wooden tub. When he had pumped for several minutes, Kedrick held the gourd dipper under the pump and let it fill. The water was clear and very cold. He drank greedily, rested, and then drank again.

  Far up the backs of the buildings, at the opposite end of town, a man was swinging an ax. Kedrick could see the flash of light on the blade and see the ax strike home, and a moment later the sound would come to him. He watched and then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and started along in back of the buildings toward the Mustang.

  He moved with extreme care, going steadily, yet with every sense alert. He wore his .44 Russians and liked the feel of them, ready to his hands. The back door of the Mustang was long unpainted and blistered by many hot suns. He glanced at the hinges and saw they were rusty. The door would squeak. Then he saw the outside stair leading to the second floor, and turning, he mounted the stairs on tiptoe, easing through that door and walking down the hall.

  In the saloon below, Fessenden had eliminated half a bottle of whiskey without destroying the deadening sense of futility that had come over him. He picked up a stack of cards and riffled them skillfully through his fingers, and there was no lack of deftness there. Whatever effect the whiskey had had, it was not on his hands.

  Irritated, he slammed the cards down and stared at the bartender. “Wish Dornie’d get back,” he said for the tenth time. “I want to leave this town. She don’t feel right today.”

  He had heard the shots down the street, but had not moved from the bar. “Some drunk cowhand,” he said irritably.

  “You better look,” the bartender suggested, hoping for no fights in the saloon. “It might be some of your outfit.”

  “I got no outfit,” Fess replied shortly. “I’m fed up. That stunt out ther
e to Yellow Butte drove me off that range. I’ll have no more of it.”

  He heard the footsteps coming down the hall from upstairs and listened to their even cadence. He glanced up, grinning. “Sounds like an Army man. Listen!”

  Realization of what he had said came over him, and the grin left his face. He straightened, resting his palms on the bar. For a long moment, he stared into the bartender’s eyes. “I knew it! I knew that hombre would—” He tossed off his drink. “Aw, I didn’t want to leave town anyway!”

  He turned, moving back from the bar. He stood spraddle-legged, like a huge grizzly, his big hands swinging at his hips, his eyes glinting upward at the balcony and the hall that gave onto it. The steps ceased, and Tom Kedrick stood there, staring down at him.

  Neither man spoke for a full minute, while suspense gripped the watchers, and then it was Fessenden who broke the silence. “You lookin’ for me, Kedrick?”

  “For any of your crowd. Where’s Shaw? And Keith?”

  “Keith’s dead. Shaw killed him back up on the Salt after you whipped us in the canyon. I dunno where he is now.”

  Silence fell once more, and the two men studied each other. “You were among them at Chimney Rock, Fessenden,” Kedrick said. “That was an ambush—drygulcher’s stunt, Fess.” Kedrick took another step forward. Then he sidestepped down the first step of the stairs that ran along the back wall until about six steps from the bottom. Then, after walking across a landing, he came down facing the room.

  Fessenden stood there, swaying slightly on his thick, muscular legs, his brutal jaw and head thrust forward. “Aw, hell!” he said, and grabbed iron.

  His guns fairly leaped from their holsters spouting flame. A bullet smashed the top of the newel-post at the head of the stairs and then ricocheted into the wall. Another punctured a hole just behind Kedrick’s shoulder. Tom Kedrick stepped down another step and then fired. His bullet turned Fessenden, and Kedrick ran lightly down four steps while Fessenden smashed two shots at him.