L'Amour, Louis - SSC 32

by The Collected Short Stories Vol 3

  “Personally, I never figured he’d leave, for Janet sort of took to him, and the way they acted, it was mutual, but he finally pulled out.”

  “You said he’d been shot up? How did that happen? He doesn’t even carry a gun now.”

  “No? Now, that’s funny. They tell me he was some slick. I heard of him after he left here, but it was the story of some shootin’ scrape down to Santa Fe before he drifted this way. Good two years ago. He never did say who shot him up, but some of us done some figurin’ an’ we reckoned it was the Alvarez gang. Story was they stole a bunch of horses off him, and that must be so. He got me to help him ride north and haze a bur out of a canyon up there, and mighty fine stock.

  “He’d evidently left them there when he was shot up, he just had to close the gate as they were in a box canyon hideaway with plenty of grass and water. They were somewhat wild but fine shape.”

  “You mean the Alvarez gang had taken the horses then Tandy got them back? Did you see any of them?”

  Herndon shrugged, rolling a smoke. It was a bright, sun morning and he had talked to nobody in three days. “Didn’t figure I would. Meadows told me there wouldn’t be any trouble and he’s the sort of man who would know.

  “No, we saw hide nor hair of nobody. At the up end of the canyon there was an adobe, and Tandy advised me to stay away from it. But once I did get sort of close and there was someth white lyin’ there that I’d swear was a skeleton.”

  “Has he got any money?”

  “Who, Tandy?” Herndon chuckled. “I doubt it. He’s a saddle tramp. Thinks of nothin’ but what’s the other side oft hill and racin’ his horses. If he ever had more than a thousand dollars in his life it would surprise me.”

  Chapter III

  Art Tollefson was a cautious man, and he had been very lacking in caution when he had allowed his pride to trap him into the bet with Meadows, but now he was doing a lot of serious thinking.

  The following morning he mounted up, and saying nothing to anyone, he rode north, avoiding the Bates’s range and heading for the area in which the box canyon had been. From Herndon’s comments it was not too hard to find, although had he not been expecting it, a man could have ridden by within a dozen yards and never guessed its existence. The bars were up, but he took them down and rode into a pleasant little canyon, grass covered and shady with probably two hundred acres of rich land in the bottom, and a good spring at the head of it.

  Nearing the adobe he rode more cautiously, and when several yards away, he drew up. Obviously, no one had been this close to the cabin for a long time, and Herndon’s surmise had been correct. It was a skeleton. Buzzards had stripped the bones bare since, but the chaps and gun belts remained, their leather stiff as board from weathering. Not far from the bones lay a rusted six shooter.

  Tollefson trailed his reins and walked up to the door. He stopped there, his mouth suddenly dry. Here three men had died, and they had died hard. The table was turned on its side and nearby lay another skeleton, face down on the dirt floor. Another slumped in the corner with a round hole over the eye, and the third was sprawled under some fallen slickers in a corner. The scene was not hard to reconstruct. They had been surprised here by a man who had walked in through the doorway. The fourth man had evidently been drawn by the gunfire or had come up later.

  It was a very thoughtful man who turned his horse toward El Poleo somewhat later. If Tandy Meadows had walked away from that cabin alive, he was nobody with whom to play games. The sooner Passman knew, the better.

  At four o’clock on the afternoon of the day before the race, Tandy Meadows watched Snap prepare an early supper. He was as good a hand with food as with horses, and he worked swiftly and surely, yet his eyes were restless and he was obviously on edge.

  “You reckon he’ll make trouble, Boss?”

  “I’d almost bet on it, “ Meadows replied, “but you can’t tell. His pride might keep him from it. He figures Lady Luck will win, I know, but he’s not a gambling man, and he’d like to be sure.”

  “You’d better watch that Passman,’ Snap advised. “He’s a bad man.”

  Tandy nodded. He was the last man in the world to take Tom Passman lightly, for he had seen him throw a gun, and the man was deadly. Moreover, he was a tough man with a lot of pride in his skill, no braggart, and no four flusher. Only death itself would stop his guns.

  Cholo Baby, a beautiful sorrel, lifted her head and whinnied softly as he approached. She was fifteen hands high, with wide-spaced and intelligent eyes. She stretched her velvety nose toward his hand and he touched her lightly.

  “How’s it, girl? You ready to run for me tomorrow?”

  Baby nudged him with her nose and Tandy grinned. “I doubt if you ever lived a day when you didn’t feel like running, Cholo. And I hope there never is!”

  He strolled back to the wagon, his eyes alert and searching the mountainside, the willows and the trail. He ate without talking, restless and disturbed despite himself. So far everything had been too quiet. Much too quiet. He could neither rest nor relax. A hint of impending danger hung over the camp and he roved restlessly about. Snap seemed to feel it, too, and even the horses were alert as if they sensed something in the air.

  Of course, Tandy reflected, if anything happened to Cholo Baby, he could ride Khari, the half-Morgan, half-Arabian horse he usually rode. Not so fast as Cholo Baby over the quarter, but still a fast horse for one with so much staying power. He still carried his rawhide riata.

  He was a California rider, and like them he valued the use of the riata, and was amazingly proficient with it. The California riders always used rawhide riatas of great length, and used them with such skill they were almost part of them.

  Suddenly, Tandy Meadows stopped. Hard upon the trail he heard the pounding hooves of a hard-ridden horse! Snap was on his feet, leaning against the off wheel of the wagon, his shotgun resting over the corner of the wagon box to cover the trail. Tandy fell back near the wagon where his Winchester stood, and waited, his lips tight, his eyes cool.

  Yet when the rider drew nearer he saw it was Janet Bates. She drew up sharply and dropped to the ground. “Oh, Tandy!’ Her face was pale. “What have you done? I just heard today you’d made a bet with Tollefson for his whole ranch! Tandy, you know you haven’t that kind of money! If you lose, what will you do? One man did fail to pay off Tollefson once and he had been lashed to a tree and whipped by Tom Passman! He’d kill you, Tandy!”

  Meadows smiled at her anxiety. “So you do worry about me? You do like me a little, then?”

  “Be serious.” Her eyes flashed. In the dusk she seemed even more lovely than ever. “You’re in trouble, and you don’t even know it. Lady Luck always wins, Tandy. He’ll kill you!”

  “He must have figured my bet was all right,” Meadows replied. “Clevenger backed me.”

  “Oh, I know, Tandy! But you fooled him somehow. I just know you fooled him! If you don’t win, what will you do?”

  “I’ll win,’ he replied simply. “I’ve got to win. I’ve got to win for you, Janet, and for your father and Jim Whitten. I came back here to force Tollefson out of the country, and I’ll not rest until I do! Your dad was mighty kind to me when I was all shot up and dyin’. Without you two I’d not be here, so when I heard of what had happened, I figured this out. I’d heard of Lady Luck, and I knew Tollefson was a mighty big-headed and stubborn man, so I deliberately worked on his pride.”

  “That isn’t all I heard,” Janet persisted quickly. “Tollefson was up near our ranch twice. He talked to Johnny about you, asking all sorts of questions. He seemed very curious about how you’d been wounded that time, and the next day Johnny Herndon saw him riding north toward the box canyon where you left your horses that time.”

  Meadows scowled. What did that mean, anyway? The Alvarez gang had been notorious outlaws, and the killing of them would be considered a public service. Or would have at the time. Yet with such information a man of his influence might find some way to do him harm.
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  “Boss,” Snap’s voice was urgent, “somebody comin.”

  Tandy Meadows turned and watched the horsemen. There were four in the group and one of them he recognized instantly as Tom Passman. When they drew nearer he saw that another was Fulton, while the two riding with them were Sheriff George Lynn and his deputy Rube Hatley.

  “Meadows,” Lynn said, “we rode out here after you. You’ve got to come back to town and answer a few questions.”

  “Always glad to answer questions, Sheriff. Can’t I answer them here?”

  “No.” Lynn’s voice was testy. “You can answer them in my office. There’s a place for such things and this isn’t it!”

  “All right, Sheriff,’ Meadows agreed. “But how about lettin’ Hatley stay here to guard my horses?”

  Lynn hesitated, disturbed by the request. It was reasonable enough, but when Art Tollefson had told him what to do, George Lynn had been reasonably certain what lay behind it. If he left Hatley he would be defeating the purpose of the trip.

  “Sorry,” he replied abruptly, “I need Hatley with me!”

  “Then of course you’ll be responsible for my horses?” Meadows persisted. “I don’t think they should be left alone.”

  “They’ll be safe enough.” Lynn was growing angry. “The responsibility is your own. Are you coming,” he asked sharply, “or do we take you?”

  “Why, I’m coming, Sheriff. I’ve never suggested anything to the contrary.” He put his foot into the stirrup, then swung aboard Khari. “Snap,” he said loudly, “if any varmints come around, don’t take chances. Shoot to kill.” Then he added, “You’ll be perfectly safe because nobody would be fool enough to come near racin’ stock on the night before a race. So don’t forget, shoot to kill!”

  “Sure thing, boss. I got me a shotgun loaded for bear!” Nothing more was said as they rode back to town. Several times Tandy saw Passman watching him, but when they reached town only a few loafers noticed them ride down the street to the sheriff’s office. Inside, Lynn came to the point at once.

  “I’ve brought you in to ask you questions about a shootin’ scrape, some time back.”

  “Why, sure!” Meadows dropped into a chair. “I didn’t figure Tollefson rode all the way up to that canyon for nothing. He must be really worried if he’s tryin’ this hard to find a way out of his bet. But aren’t you and Passman buckin’ a stacked deck? Who will you work for if I win?”

  “I work for the county!” Lynn said sharply. “That horse race has nothing to do with this inquiry!”

  “Of course not! That’s why Fulton and Passman were with you, Sheriff! Because the race has nothing to do with it! That’s why you waited to bring me in until the night before the race! I hope somebody tries to bother those horses tonight! Snap’s a whiz with a shotgun!” He turned his head. “Passman came along hopin’ I’d make some wrong play so he could plug me.”

  Passman’s eyes were flat and gray. “You talk a lot,” he said shortly, “but can you shoot?”

  Lynn waved an irritated hand. “Who were those hombres you shot up north?”

  “I shot?” Meadows looked mildly astonished. “Why, Sheriff, I didn’t say I shot anybody. I did hear something about the Alvarez gang catching some lead over some horses they stole, but beyond that I’m afraid I don’t remember much about it.”

  “You deny you shot them? You deny the fight?”

  “I don’t deny anything, and I don’t admit anything.” Tandy’s voice was cool. “If you’re planning to arrest me, by all means do it. Also, get me a lawyer down here, then either file charges against me or turn me loose. This whole proceeding, Sheriff, is highly irregular. All you have is Tollefson’s word that he saw some skeletons somewhere. Or some dead men, or some bullet holes, or something. You know that I was wounded about the same time, but even if they were not horse thieves, you’d have a tough time proving any connection.”

  Lynn was uneasy. This was the truth and he knew it, but this was what Tollefson wanted, and what he wanted he got. Yet for almost three hours he persisted in asking questions, badgering Meadows with first one and then another, and trying to trap him. Yet he got nowhere.

  Finally, he got to his feet. “All right, you can go. If I want any more questions answered, I’ll send for you.”

  Meadows got to his feet and let his eyes, suddenly grown cold, go over the four men. “All right, Sheriff, I’m always glad to answer questions, but get this: if anything has happened to my horses while I was in here, I’m coming back, and I’ll be looking for each and every one of you. And that, Lynn,” his eyes turned to the sheriff, “goes for you, sheriff or no sheriff! I’m a law-abiding man, and have always been, but if you’ve conspired with that fat-headed Tollefson to keep my horse out of that race, and through it harm comes to my horses, you’d better start packing a gun for me! Get that?”

  George Lynn’s face whitened and he involuntarily drew back. Worriedly, he glanced at Fulton and Passman for support. Fulton was pale as himself, and Passman leaned against the wall, nonchalantly rolling a cigarette. Rube Hatley stood near the door, his position unchanged.

  Meadows turned and walked past him, scarcely hearing the whispered, “Luck!” from Rube. After he was gone, Lynn stared at Fulton.

  “Harry, what will we do?” Rube Hatley chuckled. “Only one thing you can do, Sheriff. You can light a shuck out of the country or you can die. Either way, I don’t care. I wanted no part of this yellowbellied stunt, and if they were my horses I’d shoot you on sight. “

  “Passman?” Lynn was almost pleading. “You’re the gunslinger.”

  Passman shrugged. “When I get my orders. Until then I don’t make a move.”

  He turned on his heel and walked out into the night. Lynn stared at Fulton. “Harry,” he begged, “you know. What did they do?”

  “Do?” Fulton’s hand shook as he lighted his smoke. “Tollefson’s too smart to pull anything too raw. He just had some of the boys take those horses out and run them over the desert for three hours, that’s all! By daylight those horses will be so stiff and stove up they wouldn’t be able to walk that quarter, let alone run it!”

  “What about the black boy?”

  Fulton shrugged. “That’s another story. Who cares about him?”

  “Meadows might.”

  “Yeah.” Fulton was thoughtful. “He might at that. But you can be sure of one thing, after the runnin’ his horses got this night, through cactus, brush, and rocks, they’ll do no running tomorrow. I can promise you that! You leave the rest to Passman!”

  “Did Tollefson actually see those skeletons?”

  “He sure did.” Fulton’s voice was dry, emotionless. “And from what he said, if that was Tandy Meadows who walked into that shack after the Alvarez boys, he’s got nerve enough to crawl down a hole after a nest full of rattlers, believe me!”

  Chapter IV

  Gilt-Edged Collateral

  Morning dawned bright and still, and for the better part of two hours it remained bright and still, and then the boys from the ranches began to show up in El Poleo. Hard-riding youngsters, most of them, with here and there older men whose eyes were careful and wary with the sense of trouble. Buckboards, a fringed surrey, a Conestoga wagon, and many horseback riders, all coming in for the races, and all curious about what would happen. Some had heard there had been trouble the night before, but what or when, they did not know.

  Art Tollefson came in about noon. The covered wagon stood in the creek bottom disconsolate and alone. No horses were in sight, nor movement of any kind. His lips thinned with cruelty and his eyes were bright with triumph and satisfaction. Try to buck Art Tollefson, would they!

  He was walking into the saloon when he saw a buckboard draw up between two buildings, and Gene Bates and Jim Whitten got down. His lips tightened and he walked on into the saloon. The usual jovial laughter stilled as he entered. With a wave of the hand he invited all and sundry to join him at the bar. Each year this was his custom at this time, but now there w
as no concerted rush for the bar. This time, not a man moved.

  Impatiently, he stared around the room but all eyes avoided his. Then Fulton stepped to the bar followed by several of his own Flying T riders. His face and neck crimson, Tollefson stared down at his drink, his jaw set hard. Gene Bates and Jim Whitten walked into the saloon and to the bar.

  “Tollefson’s buyin’,” the bartender explained hurriedly.

  “Not our drinks!” Bates’s voice was flat. “I’ll drink with no man who hires his killin’ done and hires other men to ruin a man’s horses so he loses a race!”

  Tollefson whirled. The truth was hard to take, he found.

  “Who said that?” he demanded. “That’s a lie!”

  Bates faced him. The white-haired old man’s blue eyes were fierce. “Better back up on that, Tollefson,” he advised coldly. “Passman’s not here to do your shootin’ for you this time!”

  Tollefson’s fingers stiffened, and for an instant he seemed about to draw, but at Fulton’s low-voiced warning, he turned back to the bar. Sheriff George Lynn pushed through the doors and walked to the bar. He spoke under his breath to Tollefson.

  “They did it all right! They ran those horses half to death! I passed ‘em out on the flat not thirty minutes ago, and a worse lookin’ bunch you never did see! I couldn’t get close, but it was close enough!”

  “What will Meadows do now?” Fulton asked, low voiced. Rube Hatley had come in. He overheard Fulton’s remark and leaned both elbows on the bar.

  “Do?” Rube chuckled without humor. “If I were you hombres I’d do one of two things. I’d start ridin’ or start shootin!”

  The course was the same straightaway course they had used for this race for several years. There were several two-twenty and three-thirty races to be run off before the quarter races began.