Texas Dowd held himself thoughtfully for a moment, and then he grinned. “You always were one for raisin’ hob,” he said. “All right, let’s go!”
The two riders covered the distance to Rawhide at a rapid gallop. Byrn Sonntag had ridden out a few minutes after the others had started back into Laird Valley, so except for a few of the followers of the Rawhide crowd, few people were around. As the two horsemen clattered down the street, a shot was fired from a window. Dowd wheeled, putting a bullet through it, and then sprang from his horse and went into the barroom. “Get out!” he said to the fat-faced bartender. “Get out and quick! I’m burnin’ this place down!”
“Like hell!” The bartender swung and grabbed for his shotgun, but a bullet smashed his hand into a bloody wreck.
“Get out!” Dowd yelled. “You get the next one in your belly!”
The bartender scuttled for the door, and Dowd kicked a heap of papers together and broke an oil lamp in them, then dropped a match. Down the street there was shooting, and he rode out to find Finn Mahone standing in the street with his Winchester in his hand. Finn looked up, a dark streak of soot along his jaw, and an angry red burn. “Someone damn near checked me out.”
“You get him?”
“Right between the eyes.”
The flames inside the saloon were eating at the floor now, and creeping along the bar. The frame buildings, dry as ancient parchment, would go up like under in a high wind.
Both men swung into their saddles, and lighting some sacks, raced from door to door, scattering the fire. The wind caught the flames, and in a matter of minutes the outlaw town was one great, roaring, crackling inferno. “That will kill a lot of rats!” Finn yelled above the sound of the flames. “Let’s ride out of here!”
Away from the town, Finn glanced at the tall Texan. “It’s like old times, Dowd!”
“Sure is.” The Texan stared bleakly down the road. “I’m an awful fool, Finn.”
“Forget it. How could you know any different? Honey had that button … and it was Logan, all right. It checks too close not to be him. My trail petered out in Rico, but I never knew much about Logan, and never paid much attention to him until the day I saw him on the street with Remy Kastelle.”
They rode on, heading toward Laird. Neither of them were much worried about the Lazy K. Jody Carson, Rifenbark, and Pete Goodale were there, and aside from them there was the cook and Kastelle himself. As for Remy, she could handle a rifle better than most men.
The two rode on, side by side, looking toward the town of Laird. Texas Dowd eased himself in the saddle. “I want Logan,” he said carefully.
“He’s yours.”
Doc Finerty was standing beside the pole barn when they rode up, and there was already a graying light in the east. “Van’s in a bad way, but he’s got a chance,” Doc said. He glanced from one to the other. “Where you been?”
“We burned Rawhide,” Finn said. “Now we’re scalp-hunting. Dowd wants Logan.”
“Logan! Well, you look out for Sonntag. He’s dangerous, Finn. He’s the worst of them all.”
Mahone gestured at Brewster. “Would he make it to Laird in a buckboard?”
“He might,” Doc said dubiously. “I’ve been studying about it. He would have better care there. Lettie, she’ll take him in, and she’s a good nurse, the best around here.”
Finn got the buckboard from behind the pole barn and they roped a couple of horses and got them hitched. The ride to town was slow and careful, and as daylight came, the buckboard creaked to a stop outside of Lettie Mason’s. Finn rounded the stallion and faced down the street. There was no one in sight, for it was barely rising time for the people of Laird. Smoke was beginning to lift from a couple of chimneys.
When Brewster was inside in the care of Lettie, and Doc was sitting over coffee, Finn and Dowd walked outside. “Nick James was to keep an eye on him. Let’s walk up to Ma Boyle’s.”
Laird was quiet in the early morning light, and the dusty street was very still. Somewhere a door slammed, and then a pump began to creak, and afterward they^ heard a heavy stream of water gushing into a wooden bucket.
The two men walked up the street, then stepped on the boardwalk. Suddenly, Finn saw that the saloon was open. He pushed through the doors. Red Eason looked up, his face growing suddenly still, watchful as he saw who his visitors were.
“Two, and make them both rye,” Finn said.
Red poured the drinks and put the bottle on the bar. He glanced from one to the other, and he swallowed. He laid his hands on the bar in plain sight.
“Nice in California, Red,” Mahone said suddenly. “You’ll enjoy it there.”
“Listen,” Red Eason said quickly, “I never made any / trouble for you fellows. I can’t leave. I …” His voice dwindled away as they both looked at him.
“Red,” Finn leaned his forearms on the bar, “I like this town. I feel at home here. Dowd likes it, too. We’ve some mighty fine folks around here, and we want to see the town clean and keep it a nice place for people to live. Not like that Rawhide. If this place got as bad as Rawhide, we might have to burn it, too.”
“We don’t want to do that,” Dowd said gently, “so Finn and me, we sort of decided to weed out the undesirable elements, as they say. We sort of figure you come under that particular handle.”
Eason’s face was stiff. He was frightened, but there was still fight in him. “You can’t get away with it!” His voice was thick. “Pierce won’t stand for it!”
“Don’t call him that, Red,” Finn said. “Call him Cashman. That’s what Dowd’s going to call him when he sees him. Cashman’s the name of a murderer. The murderer of Tex’s sister. He killed Sam Hendry, too. Had him drunk and then killed him and buried him out back of the livery stable. Otis saw it.”
Both men tossed off their drinks, then turned toward the doors. At the doors, Finn looked back. “It’s nice in California, Red. You should be able to get a lot of miles between you and here before sundown … if you start now!”
Ma Boyle was bustling about, putting food on the table and pouring coffee when the two men walked in the door together. Judge Collins looked up, smiling. “How are you, Finn? Hello, Dowd!”
“We brought Brewster to town,” Mahone said. “He may pull through. Logan started to kill him when he found him dying. Remy got there and scared Logan off.”
Powis was at the table, staring at them, his eyes large.
“Logan, was it?” Collins avoided looking at Powis,
and although he was disgusted with himself for it, he felt a little glow of satisfaction that Powis was there to hear it, for the man’s abject worship of authority and the power of Pierce Logan had always irritated him.
“Seen the Rawhide bunch?”
“Alcorn’s dead. So is Ike Hibby. They attacked Dowd at Brewster’s place. The rest of them are off on the range, somewhere.”
“You won’t have to worry about Rawhide,” Texas drawled. “It ain’t there anymore.”
The door pushed open suddenly, and Nick James came in. He glanced quickly from Dowd to Mahone. “Finn,” he said quickly, “Pierce Logan’s stayed close to his place all night. He’s getting ready to come out.”
“Thanks.” Mahone glanced over at Texas Dowd. “All right,” he said, “are you going to take him or am I?”
Dowd turned. “I am.”
Powis put his cup down. It rattled nervously in his saucer. He pushed back in his chair and cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, simulating heartiness, “time I got to work.”
“Sit down, Powis.” Gardner Collins looked less the judge and more the cowhand and cattleman at that moment. “You stay right here. Dowd will tell Logan he wants him.”
Texas turned his eyes toward the barber, and the man’s face paled. Finn lifted his cup. “He’s a friend of Logan’s?”
“Sort of,” Collins agreed. “Seems to think he’s king.”
“Well,” Finn said, “times are changing around here.” He put his cup dow
n. “Powis, Red Eason is headin’ for California and expects to make a lot of distance before sundown. He might like a traveling companion.”
The barber stared from one to the other. “But my business!” he protested. “Everything I’ve got is here!”
Finn Mahone looked at him levelly. “You. don’t need anything you can’t carry. Start traveling.”
Nick James had been standing by the window, holding the cup of coffee he had poured. “Logan just came out,” he said.
Dowd finished his cup, and got to his feet. “Ma,” he said, “that sure is good coffee.” The sound of his boot heels echoed on the floor.
They sat very still, and the slam of the screen door made them all jump a little.
Pierce Logan was crossing the street to Ma Boyle’s when a door slammed, and he looked up. Texas Dowd, tall in his blue jeans and gray shirt, was standing on the step in front of Ma Boyle’s. Instantly, Logan was apprehensive, for there was something in Dowd’s whole appearance that warned him of trouble.
As he stood there on the step before his office, looking diagonally across the street at Texas Dowd, a peculiar awareness of life came over him. Somehow, he had never seemed to think of the sun’s easy warmth, the gray dust in the street, the worn, sun-warped and wind-battered frame buildings. He had never thought much of the signs along the streets of Laird, their paint cracked and old. Now, he seemed aware of them all, but mostly he was aware of the tall, still figure standing over there, looking up the street at him.
Then, the feeling passed. After all, there was no way his part in all this could be known. He was simply getting jumpy, that was all. He was being foolish. After he had his morning coffee, he would feel better. Why should just the appearance of Dowd startle him so?
“Cashman!”
The voice rang like a great bell in the silent, empty street, and Logan jerked as though stabbed.
“Cashman! Start remembering before I kill you! Start remembering a girl on a plantation in Louisiana! That girl was my sister!”
Pierce Logan stood very still. This alone he had not expected. This past was over. It was gone. That girl … Dowd’s sister? He shook his head suddenly, remembering that awful, bloody afternoon. His lips tightened and a kind of panic came over him, but he stiffened suddenly. That finished it, then. It finished it all, unless he could kill Dowd. His hand flashed for a gun and he drew in a single, sweeping movement, and fired as his gun came level.
His face gray, he crouched in the street, knowing he had missed, and the tall Texan in the gray shirt walked toward him, his long lantern jaw and his face very still, only his cold gray eyes level and hard. In a surge of panic, Logan fired two quick shots. One of them kicked up dust at Dowd’s feet, and the other plucked at his sleeve.
Texas Dowd stopped, no more than a dozen feet away) and fired. The sound of his gun was like the roll of a drum, and at each shot, Logan jerked as if struck by a fist. Then, slowly, he sank to the dust, the pistol dribbling from his fingers.
Feeding shells into his gun, Texas Dowd backed slowly away from the fallen man, then turned and walked back to Ma Boyle’s. Judge Gardner Collins, cleared his throat as Dowd came in, and Finn Mahone poured a fresh cup of coffee. At no time had he risen from the table. He didn’t have to. He knew Dowd.
CHAPTER 8
Finn Mahone and Texas Dowd reached the Lazy K, riding slowly for the last few miles. Both men rode with rifles ready, uncertain as to whether they would find the ranch safe, or besieged. As they drew near, the two men let a gap widen between them and rode warily up to the ranch. Jody Carson was the first person they saw.
“Howdy,” he said, grinning at them. “You two missed the fun.”
“We had some our own selves What happened here?”
“That Rawhide bunch bit off more’n they could chew. Montana Kerr, Ringer Cobb, Banty Hull, and Leibman rode in here this mornin’ about sunup. They were loaded for bear an’ looked plumb salty, an’ I reckon they was.”
“Was?”
“That’s what I said.” Jody put a hand on Finn’s saddle horn. “You know, I never rightly had the boss figured. He lazed around up there to the house, takin’ it easy, an’ lettin’ Texas here an’ Remy run the whole shebang, but when we heard the place was liable to be attacked, he rared up on his hind legs, strapped on some guns, an’ then he told us what was what.
“Well, sir! You should have seen them hard cases They rode in here big as life an’ tough as all get-out. You could see it stickin’ out all over them. They was just a-takin’ this here spread over, an’ right now. Dowd was gone, an’ he was the salty one of the crowd, they reckoned. Well, I reckoned so, too.
“When they rode up they swung down and started for the house, but the boss, he stepped out on the porch. “Howdy, boys he says, big as life an’ slick as a whistle, ‘lookin’ for something’?”
“Well, I reckon!” Kerr tells him, ‘we’ve come to take over this here place, an’ if you don’t want no trouble, you stay the hell out of the way!”
“But s’posin’ I want trouble?” the boss says, an’ he says it so nice that they don’t take him very serious.
“Don’t you be foolish Kerr says, ‘you can come out of this alive if you’re smart!”
“That’s what I was fixin’ to tell you Kastelle says, ‘you boys crawl back in those saddles an’ light out of here, an’ you can go your way. We’ll just make like it never happened he says.
“Montana, he still can’t figure Frenchy Kastelle makin’ any fuss. Never guessed he was the fightin’ type. He starts to say something’ when Cobb opens his big face. “Let’s get ‘em, Monty. Why stand here palaverin’?” Then he went for his gun …
“It was a bad thing to do, Tex. Too bad them boys couldn’t have lived long enough to know their mistake. I tell you, we had our orders, an’ we were a-layin’ there all set with our rifles an’ shotguns. There was Pete, Rif, Wash, an’ me, with Remy up to the house. Cobb, he reached, but he was a mite slow. The boss shot him so fast I didn’t even know what happened. He’d told us aforetime. He says, “If they ride off, let ‘em go. If they fire one shot … wipe ‘em out!”
“Mister, we wiped ‘em! When Cobb went for his gun, the boss drilled him, an’ then the whole passel of ours cut loose on ‘em an’ I don’t think they ever knowed what hit ‘em. They must have figured we was either gone, or so skeered we wouldn’t fight none.
“Pete, he and Rif are out back now, diggin’ graves for the lot of them.”
“Anybody hurt?”
Jody chuckled. “Nary a one! They never had a chance! Hell, if this don’t scare all the outlaws out of Laird Valley, they just ain’t the smart folks we figure ‘em for.”
He looked up at Finn, then at Tex. “What happened to you-all?”
Dowd explained briefly about the fight at the Brewster ranch, the killing of Alcorn and Hibby, and the subsequent raid upon Rawhide and how it had been left in flames. Mahone went on from there to tell about the killing of Pierce Logan, and how Eason and Powis had left town.
Carson chuckled. “Well, now! Ain’t that something’? This will sure make believers out of those bad hombres! This will be a place to leave alone!” Suddenly, he frowned. “What about Sonntag?”
Mahone shrugged. “Neither Sonntag nor Frank Salter have shown up. Sonntag is plenty bad, and Salter is a fit partner for him. The two of them are poison, and while they may have left the range, I doubt it. They’ll stick around.”
Finn Mahone’s eyes had been straying toward the ranch house. Finally, he shoved his hat back on his head, and his face flushed as he suggested, “I expect I’d better go up and tell Frenchy what happened.”
Dowd chuckled. “Sure. You might tell Remy, too!”
As Finn trotted the stallion toward the house, he heard them both laughing at him, and he grinned in spite of himself.
Remy Kastelle came out the door as he mounted the steps. “Finn! Oh, it’s you! And Tex is back! What happened?”
Frenchy had come into the d
oorway behind her, and Mahone explained the situation as quickly as possible.
It was Remy who repeated the question. “What about Sonntag?”
“Neither he nor Salter have been heard from, but they may show up yet. I’ve got to get back to my place and move some cattle. Ed Wheeling over at Rico wants to buy some stock from me.”
Hours later, on the road back to Crystal Valley, Finn Mahone rode swiftly. Nick James had left that morning and was to meet him at the Notch, and they would go on to the valley together. With James and Shoshone Charlie, he could manage the drive all right. Dowd had offered him a hand, but Mahone refused.
He said nothing to them of his worries, but he had his own ideas about what had become of Byrn Sonntag. The big redheaded gunman was probably in Rico. It would be like him to go there, for he knew the place and they knew him. Jim Hoff, the buyer of stolen cattle, was there; Sonntag would need money and he could sell some of the rustled cattle to Hoff.
The following day, Finn Mahone pushed his own herd of cattle through the upper canyon of the Laird. He had his sale to make, and he had the sense that the last act of the Laird Valley cattle war was going to play itself out in Rico.
Finn knew there would be rustling and robbery in the Laird Valley as long as Byrn Sonntag and Frank Salter were at large. Now that he was no longer being set up to be a scapegoat, the rustlers would have no compunction about taking his cattle along with those of everyone else. Texas Dowd had said little, but Mahone knew that he felt the same.
Nick James rode by. Mopping sweat and dust from his brow, he grinned at Mahone. The white-faced cattle moved briskly ahead, bawling and frisking, occasionally stopping to crop disinterestedly at the sparse desert growth. Soon they were mounting the trail to theA plateau on which Rico stood.
The scattered shacks that lay around Rico appeared, and then the stockyards. A couple of hands rode up and helped them to corral the stock. Finn left Shoshone Charlie and Nick James to drown their thirst, and headed for the Gold Spike to see Wheeling.
When the stock buyer saw him, he almost dropped his glass. “Mahone, you’d better be careful. Sonntag is in town selling cattle. If he sees you around, he’ll think you’ve come after him.”
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