L'Amour, Louis - SSC 32

by The Collected Short Stories Vol 3

  Beaure knew them both by sight, and Naley a little better than that. Mason lived in a small shack over on the Clearwater. He had been a prospecting partner of Jim Pollock’s when the latter first came west. Hugo Naley was foreman of the Slash Five. The granddaughter’s name, Tebbets informed him, was Nora Rand.

  If he explained to Tebbets what he had overheard, Tebbets would advise him, and rightly, that it was none of his business and to stay out of it. Still, the old man might be able to help.

  That girl had no business going out there alone, and he was not going to stand by and see her do it. He remembered Hugo Naley from the roundup. He was a burly, deep-voiced man with an arrogant, hard-heeled way about him, and the punchers had him down as a bad man to cross.

  There was a jingle of bells in the street and Beaure turned quickly to look from the window, a fact not lost on Abram Tebbets. In the lights that fell from windows to the snow, Beaure saw it was a cutter containing two people. Beaure went down the stairs two steps at a time.

  Abram Tebbets stepped past his chair into the living room of his apartment, and glanced from the window in time to see the cutter and its two passengers disappearing into the snow along the river road. At the distance and in the vague light there was no possibility of making them out. The horses and rig looked like o ne belonging to the livery barn.

  The wind moaned under the eaves and snow swirled in the now empty street. It was a bad night to be out … Beaure Hatch was going into the livery stable.

  Sighing, Tebbets put aside his pipe and shouldered into his buffalo coat. That Beaure was thinking of buying a place was logical—it was a thought that came to many cowhands, and Beaure was more canny than the average. That he had saved any money at his wages was ridiculous.

  Crossing to the Metropole, Tebbets ordered a drink. “Has Len Mason been in?”

  “Len? Ain’t seen him in a week or more. And not likely in this storm.”

  Beaure Hatch was a quiet young cowpuncher and not inclined to go off on tangents. Tebbets tossed off half his whiskey and scowled at the glass.

  “Suppose everybody will be staying out of’town, and don’t know as I blame them.”

  “Naley was in from the Five. He didn’t stay long.”

  Hugo Naley … scowling, Tebbets crossed to watch the checker game. Dickerson was the station agent, and he had played checkers in the Metropole every night for years.

  “Quiet,” he replied to Tebbets’s question. “No passengers today, and only three last night. A couple of hands returning from Denver and some girl … a pretty little thing.”

  The big red horse Beaure rented from the livery stable had no liking for the storm, yet he forged ahead into the snow, evidently hopeful of a good bait of corn and a warm barn at the end of the trip.

  The wind was stronger once clear of the town. Here and there it had swept the road free of snow, but there were drifts. The cutter had a good start and was making time. Beaure took out his muffler and tied it around his hat and under his chin, and with his collar around his ears, he could keep fairly warm.

  After awhile he dismounted and led the horse. His feet tingled with the cold that was in them. Only where the cutter went through a large drift were there visible tracks. Suppose they didn’t go to the Pollock place at all? Try as he might, Beaure could not think of an alternative along this road.

  Beaure wiped the red horse’s eyes free of the snow that had gathered on his lids. It was bitter cold, and night had turned to solid blackness through which the wind howled and the blown snow snapped at the skin like tiny needles.

  If Hugo Naley was planning to do away with the girl— and Beaure could think of no other reason for his lies—then he had chosen a perfect time. The girl would have been seen at the station and at the hotel, but it was unlikely anybody would think of her again.

  She had taken her belongings, and nobody would have seen them leave town in this storm. If the girl never came back, who would there be to know?

  But how could Naley hope to profit? Len Mason was due to inherit before Naley. Unless something happened to Mason, too. Living alone as he did, it might be weeks before anyone knew. Mason was nearly eighty, and he lived far out of town on a lonely part of the range. A number of times his friends had tried to get him to move to town. The girl was supposedly dead, and Mason’s death would surprise no one.

  There was no question of seeing any more. The snow was swirling all around, and all sense of direction was lost. He must have been traveling a couple of hours, and during the first hour he had made good time. He could be no more than ten miles from Carson Crossing now, which would put him in the midst of a broad plain. Roughly a mile ahead would be the first of the timber. If he could get into that timber, the trail would be well defined by the trees themselves.

  He put the wind on his left side and pointed the horse straight ahead, keeping the wind against the left side of his face. Suddenly they were floundering among the drifts at the edge of the woods, and Beaure recognized a huge old lightning-struck cottonwood, and knew he was less than a mile from the Pollock house. Turning into the wind, he rode along the edge of the timber. He had not kept to the trail, but despite the storm had made good time. Through a break in the storm he glimpsed a dark bulk ahead, and turned his horse into the trees.

  Here the blowing snow was less, the fury of the wind was cut down, and there were places where he found relatively little snow.

  Beaure drew up, snuggling his cheek against the sheepskin collar. Now that he was here he had no idea what he meant to do or could do. Had they arrived? He saw no light.

  Thrusting his hand inside the coat he felt for his six-gun, touching the butt lightly. He also had his Winchester in the scabbard with an old bandanna tied around it to keep the snow out. He had no desire to go up against Hugo Naley, yet he surely couldn’t allow anything to happen to that girl.

  He sat in his saddle looking toward the Pollock house, and suddenly he began to feel foolish. Suppose he was wrong? Suppose Hugo had fixed the house up? Even had a fire going?

  He peered through the snow. There was no smell of smoke, but in this wind it would be hard to tell.

  There was a large stone stable, but that would be the very place Naley would head for. However, there was an old adobe out back where cowhands occasionally kept their

  horses and slept themselves when in the vicinity. It was back from the house, but it was tight, and there might even be a little hay.

  Keeping under cover of the trees, Beaure Hatch rode north until he could cut across to the adobe. He opened the door and led his horse inside.

  Suddenly, it was very still. He struck a match and looked around. The small building was dark and still. There was hay heaped in a corner, and there were four stalls in the small building. He led his horse into a stall, loosened the cinch, and put hay into the manger.

  He took a handful of hay and rubbed his horse dry, and then peered out toward the house. No light was visible.

  Suppose they had not even come here? Suppose Naley had taken her to his own place? He was owner of a small spread over at the head of Brush Canyon. No sooner had the idea occurred to Beaure than it was dismissed, for in this weather such a trip was not to be considered.

  He had been aware of a peculiar smell for several minutes, and now he struck another match and looked slowly around. He walked to the next stall and peered in. Nothing. Nor was there anything in any of the other stalls. Nevertheless, he did smell something, and suddenly he knew what it -it was fresh earth.

  was

  He went quickly to the corner of the old barn where a door opened into the old lean-to behind it. This was the only place he had not looked.

  Opening the door, he stepped in, and struck a match. Before him gaped a hole. It was six feet long, and all of six feet deep, and it was freshly dug. The top layers of frozen earth had been hacked away with a mattock, which stood nearby, alongside the shovel. And Beaure needed no second glance to recognize them. They were the tools he had often seen
on Len Mason’s place. In fact, he had borrowed that shovel several times to help dig steers out of bogs, scooping mud away from their legs before pulling them out with a rope. He knew the scarred handle, the red spot on the end that Mason put on his tools to mark them against theft.

  The match burned down to his fingers and he dropped it into the grave, for grave it was … or was intended to be.

  He walked back through the darkness to the window and peered out at the snow-blanketed house. While he waited here, murder could be done.

  But what about Len Mason? Was he in on it, too?

  He shucked his gun and checked it, wetting his cold lips with his tongue. No getting around it, he was scared. He had never faced any man with a gun. He had never used a gun for anything but potshots at rabbits, and once he had killed a rabid coyote.

  Thrusting the pistol back into its holster, h’e buttoned his coat and went out into the storm, closing the door behind him.

  The wind tore at his coat, lashed his face with hard driven particles. The snow was more than knee deep in the ranch yard as he plodded across it to the wall of the house. He had never been inside and had no idea whether it was advisable … or even how to get in.

  He started around the house, then stopped. Dimly he could see the big barn, and a darker square showed through the white. The big door had been opened! Closed now, but the snow that had been blown against the boards had fallen off as it was moved.

  A stir of sound came from within the old house. Turning swiftly, Beaure ran around to the back. The old slanting cellar door was partly broken, and he lifted it against the weight of snow and went down the steep steps into the cellar.

  Above him the floor creaked. Feeling his way in the unfamiliar darkness, he found the steps and crept up them. Carefully, he tried the door that led into the house. It was unlocked, but stuck tight by dampness.

  “I was warned not to come here.”

  “You’re a liar—Who could warn you?”

  “A cowboy … he overheard us through the partition. He has the room next to mine, and he told me this place had been closed for years.”

  “Do you take me for a fool? In the first place, cowhands don’t stay in hotels. When in town they sleep in the livery stable.”

  Beaure could hear sticks breaking. Hugo Naley was making a fire. If he was going to kill her, why was he waiting? And why build a fire at all?

  He shivered, answering his question with his own bitter chill. His fingers were stiff and his face raw from the cold outside. He tried to warm his face in his hands, then realized he would need warm, pliable fingers to handle a gun, and thrust both hands inside his coat.

  “Nobody knows you are alive, Nora, and they haven’t kept a guest register at that hotel for years. Now if you had stopped at the Metropole, I’d have bee n in trouble.”

  The breaking of sticks continued. He was stomping on heavier sticks to break them, and Beaure thought he might time his pushing of the” door with one of these attempts, but there was no rhythm to them and he was afraid to try.

  “If you got outside you’d just die in the snow,” Naley was saying, “so you’d better be satisfied. You ain’t been treated rough, and I don’t aim to treat you so. Once I get this place all to myself I can have women, all the women I want … Anyway, you’re too skinny for my taste.”

  Beaure was angered. She was not skinny! Fact was, she was a mighty shapely little filly—willowy, maybe, but not skinny.

  He heard a scrape of a boot and the snap of a clasp knife opening. Nora screamed, and Beaure lunged against the door.

  It gave suddenly under his weight, and he stumbled into the room and fell to his knees. He grabbed at the fastenings of his coat, and hearing the click of a gun hammer he looked up into the round muzzle of Hugo Naley’s pistol.

  “Well … you’re Hatch, ain’t you? What are you doing here?” Without taking his gun off Beaure, Hugo Naley folded his knife closed and stowed it in his pocket.

  Beaure got to his feet very carefully. Nora was unwinding a freshly cut rope that had bound her wrists, her eyes were wide and frightened. He must look almighty foolish, falling into a room that way, and he wasn’t cutting much figure as a rescuer. “Waiting for the Dutchman,” he said. “I was hunting up some wood, figured to build me a fire and warm up until he got here. Reilly sent the Dutchman and me to work cattle out of Smoky Draw t» efore they get buried.”

  Beaure was amazed at himself. The lie made more sense than anything he had done so far, and it had come to his lips very naturally. It was just plausible enough to be true.

  Naley’s pistol was steady. “Reilly told me he was letting most of the Seventy-Seven hands go,” he said.

  Beaure had no idea what to do. Saying he had a chance, what was there he could do unless he could get his gun out?

  He would have no chance in a fight with Hugo. Around the Seventy-Seven chuck wagon they said Hugo Naley was a mean man in a fight, and Beaure had not fought since that scrap with the mule skinner in Gillette, Wyoming, three years ago. Naley would outweigh him by forty pounds.

  “I’m finishing out the week.” He had expected to do just that, but Reilly let them all go without saying aye, yes, or no. “The Dutchman said he would meet me here.”

  Naming the Dutchman—that was a good thing, too.

  Dutch Spooner was a tough man, just about the toughest on the Seventy-Seven, and no nonsense about him. Beaure had no idea that the Dutchman would side him against anyone, but they had worked together.

  “All right,” Naley said, “we’ll wait for him. I think you’re lying.”

  Nora watched him cautiously from across the room. Obviously, she was thinking about his warning in town and was wondering just what he was up to. That was a question to which Beaure wished he had a better answer.

  “Say,” he asked innocently, “what are you all doing here, and what was that yelling about?” He casually unbuttoned his jacket as he moved toward the fire, wanting his hands warm. Only Naley outguessed him and sidestepped suddenly, bringing the barrel of his six-shooter down on Beaure’s head. He saw it coming and tried to duck, catching a glancing blow that dropped him to his knees. Before he knew what was happening, Naley put a foot between his shoulders and held him down while he slid his six-shooter out of its holster.

  “That was the meanest thing I ever saw!” Nora Rand’s face was white with anger. “You—you dirty coward!”

  “Shut up,” Hugo Naley said impatiently. “Shut up, Nora, I’ve got thinking to do.”

  Beaure had slumped down by the fire, and feeling the warmth soaking the chill from him, he remained there. He needed to get the stiffness of cold out of his muscles, and he needed time to think. So far he had acted the blundering fool. Through the throbbing pain in his skull, that fact stood out with pitiless clarity.

  “He’s going to kill us,” Nora whispered. “He wants to inherit this ranch from my grandfather, and you’re in it, too.”

  She was right, and the worst of it was there just wasn’t anything anybody could do about it. Nobody knew the girl

  was here, nobody knew Beaure was. He had been paid off and had told everybody he was leaving, so nobody would be looking for either the girl or himself, and they could drop from sight and nobody the wiser.

  Out of the slit of his eyes he looked up at Hugo Naley and was awed by the man’s size. His face might have been carved from oak.

  Naley was trying to think it out. Beaure knew that Naley placed little faith in the lie about the Dutchman, but it was a likely story because all the range knew the Seventy-Seven had lost cattle by their bunching up in narrow draws which filled up with many feet of snow. There was a better chance for them in the wider valleys and canyons where the snow drifted less deep.

  The Dutchman was a notoriously difficult, taciturn man. Hard-headed, opinionated, and obstinately honest, he was a man without humor and without fear. Moreover; it had been rumored that the Dutchman did not like Hugo Naley.

  Beaure wished there was something
he could do. Naley was so all-fired big and mean—and he had both guns.

  The wind moaned under the eaves, and Beaure thought of that icy grave in the lean-to. Naley could bury them together, fill in that grave, and scatter straw over it, and come spring nobody would know the difference. Nobody ever went into that old lean-to, anyway.

  The fire was warming him. Beaure thought of that. They were fairly trapped, but so was Naley. No man would be fool enough to try to cut across country in weather like this, and if he stopped by any of the ranches they would be curious as to why he was out. No passersby were likely in this weather, but somehow Naley had to be rid of them both.

  “Suppose you do get rid of me?” Nora asked. “What about Len Mason?”

  Naley shot her a glance out of his ice-blue eyes, but he did not comment. Beaure had a feeling that Naley had his own reasons for not worrying about Mason.

  That livery stable man … He wouldn’t worry about his horse for a day or two, and if the horse showed up without a rider, if Naley simply tied the stirrups up and let it loose, the hostler might curse Beaure out for leaving the horse find his way back alone, but he probably wouldn’t suspect any foul play.

  Beaure sat up. “I want to see you try that on the Dutchman,” he said. “I just want to see you try.”

  Naley walked to the window and peered out into the blinding snowstorm. Beaure looked at the broad back and studied the idea of jumping him, but realized the floor would creak and Naley would turn and let him have it.

  Yet Naley was worried. Was it the storm? Or was he buying that story about the Dutchman?

  “You’d better call this off, Naley. You kill us and you’ll -hang. I saw you and the girl in town today, and others did too.”

  Naley ignored him, walking restlessly from window to window. Obviously he thought little of any attempt Beaure might make against him. It was the storm that worried him, for the wind was increasing. The cold was also increasing.

  Beaure thought about the fuel situation and understood why Naley was worried. If the storm lasted three days, they would be burning the house itself. There were some deadfalls at the edge of the woods, but finding and cutting them up in this weather would be impossible, even if there was an ax available.