“That suits me!” Ike Hibby said emphatically. “That suits me right down t’ the ground. If Mahone an’ his boys are goin’ t’ work our cows, we got t’ take steps!”
“You’ve said again that he has some men,” Collins said. “Does anyone actually know that?”
“I do,” Alcorn replied. “I seen him an’ three others back in the Highbinders, two, three weeks ago. Strangers,” he added.
Harran nodded. “He buys a powerful lot of ammunition. More than one man would use.”
“Maybe,” Kastelle suggested, smiling a little, “he’s heard some of this kind of talk and has been getting ready for trouble.”
“It’s more than one man would use,” Harran insisted.
“What about this range detective?” Brewster asked. “Who could we get?”
“Why not Byrn Sonntag?” Hibby suggested. “He’s in the country, and he’s not busy runnin’ cows like the rest of us.”
“Sonntag?” Collins burst out. “Why, the man’s a notorious killer!”
“What do you want?” Cobb said. “A preacher?”
“It takes a man like that!” Brewster stated dogmatically. “If he finds a man rustlin’, why bother with a trial?”
Pierce Logan said nothing, but inside he was glowing. This couldn’t be going better.…
“You’re bein’ quiet, Logan,” Brewster said. “What do you think?”
“Well,” Logan said, shrugging, “it’s up to you boys, but if Miller can’t cope with it, then perhaps Sonntag could.”
“Mahone’s supposed t’ be a bad man with a gun,” Cobb said, “or so Dowd tells us. Well, Sonntag can handle him.”
Kastelle looked up. “By the way,” he said, “has anyone ever seen Mahone rustling? Has he been caught with any stolen stock? Has he been seen riding on anybody’s range? What evidence is there?”
“Well,” Brewster said, uneasily, “not any, rightly, but we know—”
“We know nothing!” Collins said sharply. “Nothing at all! This suspicion stems from a lot of rumors. Nothing more.”
“Where there’s smoke there’s fire!” Alcorn said. “I think Sonntag would be a good bet, myself.”
“He could gather evidence,” Logan admitted carefully. “We would then know what to do.”
“You’ve not said what you think, ma’am.” Taggart looked over at Remy. “Abe sets powerful store by what you think about stock. How do you figger this?”
“I don’t believe Finn Mahone is a rustler,” Remy said. “I think we should have plenty of evidence before we make any accusations. All we know is that we’ve missed stock and that Mahone keeps to himself.”
Logan looked up, surprised. The feeling in Remy’s voice aroused him, and he looked at her with new eyes. In the past few months he had taken his time with Remy, feeling he was the only man on the range at whom a girl of her type could look twice. Now, something in her voice made him suddenly alert.
“Well,” Brewster said irritably, “what’s it to be? Are we goin’ to do something or just ride home no better off than when we came?”
“I’m for hirin’ Sonntag,” Alcorn said seriously.
“Me, too,” Cobb said.
“Count me in on that,” Ike Hibby said. He lighted his pipe. “I’m only running a few cattle, but I’ve lost too much stock!”
“Put it to a vote,” Logan suggested. “That’s the democratic way.”
Judge Gardner Collins, Kastelle, Remy, and Texas Dowd voted against it. Alcorn, Hibby, Cobb, Brewster, and Taggart voted for Sonntag.
“How about it, Logan?” Collins said. “Where do you stand?”
“Well,” he said with evident reluctance, “if it comes to a vote, I’m with the boys on Sonntag. That looks like action.”
“Then it’s settled!” Brewster said. He got to his feet. “I’m a-gittin’ home.”
“Mahone said something to me once,” Remy said, in a puzzled tone. “He said the way to look for rustlers was with a pen and ink.”
Ike Hibby jerked, and looked around hastily. Ringer Cobb’s eyes narrowed, and strayed to Dowd. Texas Dowd was leaning against the wall again, and he looked back at Cobb, his eyes bright with malice.
Hibby shifted his feet. “Reckon I’ll be headin’ for home,” he said. “Got a long ways t’ go!”
Brewster picked up his hat and nodded good-bye to everyone. Alcorn and Ike glared at Remy, Alcorn licking his lips. “I don’t figure I know what you mean, ma’am. But if anyone is accusin’ anyone, it’s us against Mahone. Not the other way around.”
Slowly, they trooped out.
“Now what did I say?” Remy demanded, looking from her father to Dowd.
The tall Texan walked over and dropped into a chair. “You put your finger on the sore spot,” he said grimly. “You blew the lid off the trouble in Laird!”
“Why, how do you mean?” she demanded, wide-eyed.
“Got a pen?” Texas said grimly.
She brought one out, and some paper. He looked up at her. “What’s Abe’s brand? A Spur, ain’t it? Now look, an’ I’ll draw a Spur. Now what’s Ike Hibby’s brand? IH joined. Now just you take a look, ma’am …”
She looked at the rough drawing.
“You see what I mean? You take Abe’s brand, add a mite more to the sides of the Spur to make it look like an I, then put a bar on the end of the Spur to make her look like the outside of the H.”
Remy leaned over the table, excitedly. “But then, he could steal the Spur cattle and alter that brand without trouble!”
“Uh-huh, unless we caught him at it. Or unless we found some stock with altered brands. We ain’t done either.”
“You mean to say you’ve known this all the time?”
“I been thinkin’ about it. But thinking something and havin’ evidence ain’t the same thing.”
“But what about ours? The Lazy K?”
“It’s probably made into a Box Diamond, and that’s Ringer Cobb’s brand. Brewster’s Lazy S they change into a Lazy Eight.”
“But then, that Rawhide crowd must be the rustlers!” Remy exclaimed.
“Uh-huh,” Dowd agreed. “That’s what I thought, but what can we prove?
“Something else, too,” he added gravely. “Tonight the Rawhide bunch voted their own boss in as a paid, legal killer! Who’s goin’ to tell him where to stop? Or who he kills? Who will stop him once he’s started?”
CHAPTER 4
Finn Mahone heard of the action of the Cattleman’s Association when in Rico. He had made it a duty to visit Rico every so often, always hoping the man he had come west to find would show himself there again.
He had never seen the man for whom he was looking close up. He knew his name, that he had been a riverboat gambler, and that he was a wizard with cards and deadly with a pistol. He knew also that the man carried a derringer in his sleeve and was not above sneak-shooting a man.
Finn Mahone had trailed him from New Orleans to Natchez. All the time, the man had ridden a stolen steel-dust gelding. The man had ridden the big horse all the way to Santa Fe, where he traded it off for another animal. Mahone had bought the steel-dust from the new owner on a hunch and continued on.
Then he heard that a man answering the rough description had killed a man in Rico. But in Rico the trail was lost for good. Eventually, Finn had explored the Crystal Valley and settled down there. He was operating on a hunch that his man was somewhere around. He kept the big gelding, although he could not bring himself to ride it, and the horse grazed his upper pasture even now.
Ed Wheeling was in the Gold Spike Bar when he walked in. Wheeling greeted him with a smile. “How’s it, Finn? Got any cattle? That last herd I bought from you was said to be the finest beef in Kansas City!”
“Thanks.” Finn ordered a drink. “When do you want some? I reckon I can bring over a few. About a hundred head.”
“That all you’ve got? I’ll take them, and top prices anytime you get them over here. What’s this I hear about Sonntag being hired as
a range detective?”
Mahone looked at him quickly. “Sonntag? That’s bad.”
“What I thought. The man’s a killer. I saw him kill one man here in town only a few weeks ago. The man had an even break, if you can ever call it even when they go against him.”
Finn turned his glass in his fingers. “Wheeling, what do you know about this rustling?”
Wheeling glanced right and left, then touched his tongue to his lips. “Nothing, if anybody asks. Me, I don’t buy any doubtful beef, but there’s others do. I’ll tell you this much. There’s been some queer-looking brands shipped out of here. Good jobs, but they looked burned over to me.”
“Who buys ’em?”
“Well, don’t go saying I told you. Jim Hoff bought ’em, but then, he’d buy anything he could get cheap.”
“Thanks.” He tossed off his drink. “This Sonntag deal is liable to be bad for those folks over to Laird. Sonntag is boss of that Rawhide bunch.” He glanced at Wheeling. “They run the Lazy Eight, Box Diamond, and IH connected, if that means anything to you.”
“It does,” Wheeling replied. “It means plenty!”
Finn left the saloon. What Wheeling had told him only confirmed what he had believed. There was brand altering being done somewhere around. And some, at least, were being sold in Rico. They would move against him now, he had no doubt of that. The employing of Sonntag would give them a free rein. He wondered what the first move would be.
The noose was tightening now. Stopping in at the store he bought three hundred rounds of .44-caliber ammunition. His pistols had been modified to use the same ammunition as his Knight’s Patent Winchester, which simplified things in that department.
He was just stowing it in his saddlebags when he saw Dean Armstrong. The newspaperman was coming toward him. “Howdy, Dean!” he said.
Armstrong’s face was somber. “Watch yourself, Finn,” he said. “I think Sonntag’s gunning for you. I know Ringer Cobb is. He made his boast at the Cattleman’s meeting that he would accuse you to your face.”
“What happened at that meeting?”
“It was ramrodded, in a sense. Judge Collins, Kastelle, Remy, and Dowd voted against Sonntag. But Brewster and Taggart threw in with the Rawhide bunch.”
“Taggart?”
“Abe McInnis’s foreman. Abe was dry-gulched, wounded badly the same time they killed Tony Welt.”
“Hadn’t heard about that.”
Armstrong looked at him quickly, worriedly. “Finn, they’ve got you pegged for that job. It happened in one of the canyons in the wild country south of the Rimrock. They found the tracks of a big horse, and some of them say they saw your stallion in there.”
“I might have been there,” Finn admitted, “but not when any shooting took place.”
He dug his toe into the dust. “Remy voted against Sonntag, huh?”
“Yes. In fact, Finn, she spoke right out in the meeting and said she didn’t believe you were a rustler.”
“What did Dowd say?”
“He was against Sonntag. But on the whole, he didn’t have much to say. I think Texas Dowd believes in killing his own beef.”
“You’re damned right he does,” Mahone said sharply. “That man’s got more cold-blooded nerve than any I ever saw!”
“What’s between you two, anyway?” Dean demanded, looking curiously at Finn. “I’d think you two would be friends!”
Mahone shrugged. “That’s the way things happen. We were friends once, Dean. For a long time. I know that man better than anyone in the world, and he should know me, but he’s powerful set in his ways, and once he gets an idea in his head it’s hell gettin’ it out.”
Finn Mahone headed across the plateau in sooty darkness. Dean’s information and what he had learned from Wheeling put the problem fairly in his hands. The Rawhide bunch were evidently out to get him. Ringer Cobb had made his boast, and he was the type of man to back it up if he could.
From the beginning there had been an effort to hang the rustling on him. While his living alone would be suspicious to some, Finn had an idea that more than a little planting of ideas had been going on over the range. There was deliberate malice behind it. It was not Dowd’s way to stoop to such tactics. Texas Dowd would say nothing. He would wait, patiently, and then one of them would die.
A roving, solitary man all his life, Finn had found but one man he cared to ride the river with. That man was Texas Dowd. They had ridden a lot of rivers, and their two guns had blasted their way out of more than one spot of trouble.
Had there been a chance of talking to Dowd, he would have done it, but there was too much chance the man would shoot on sight. Cold, gray, and quiet, Dowd was a man of chilled steel, the best of friends, but the most bitter of enemies.
One thing was now clear. It was up to him to prove his innocence. It might be a help to ride into town and see Lettie. She always knew what was going on, and was one of the few friends he had. She, and Garfield Otis.
What was it Dean had said about Otis? “Funny about Otis, Finn,” he’d said. “He hasn’t had a drink in almost a week. Got something on his mind, but he won’t talk.”
The trail dipped down into the Laird River Canyon, and the sound of rushing water lifted to his ears. Rushing water and the vague dampness that lifted from the trembling river. He should have told Ed Wheeling to say nothing about his bringing the cattle. Ed was a talkative man, and an admirer of those fat white-faced steers of Finn’s.
This would be where they would wait for him, here in the canyon. A couple of good riflemen here could stop the passage of any herd of cattle, or of any man.
The cabin on the ledge was very quiet when he rode in. As he swung down from the stallion’s back, he remembered the morning Remy Kastelle had stood on the steps waiting for him, and how her hair had shone in the bright morning sun.
The cabin seemed dark and lonely when he went inside, and after he had eaten he sat down to read, but now there was no comfort in his books. He got up and strode outside, all the old restlessness rising within him, that driving urge to be moving on, to be going. He knew what was coming, knew that in what happened there would be heartbreak and sudden death.
Aware of all the tides of western change, Finn Mahone could see behind the rustling in Laird Valley a deep and devious plan. It was unlike any rustling he had seen before. It was no owl-hoot gang suddenly charging out of the night on a wild raid, nor was it some restless cowhands who wanted money for a splurge across the border. This had been a careful, soundless, and trackless weeding of herds. Had it gone on undiscovered, it would have left the range drained of cattle, and the cattlemen broke.
He could see how skillfully the plan had been engineered. How careful the planning. As he studied what Dean had told him of the Cattleman’s meeting, another thought occurred. The vote had been six to four to hire Sonntag. But what if McInnis had been there?
The dour New England Scotsman was not one for plunging into anything recklessly. He would never have accepted the hiring of Sonntag. Especially as Collins and the Kastelles had voted against it. This the leader of the rustlers must have figured. The shooting of McInnis had been deliberately planned and accomplished in cold blood.
Had McInnis been voting, Taggart either would not have been there to vote, or would have followed Abe’s lead. Brewster, hotheaded and impulsive as he was, would have been tempered by the McInnis’s coolness. Then the vote would have been against hiring Sonntag! At the worst, it would have been a tie, and no action.
That the meeting had been called before the shooting of Abraham McInnis, Mahone knew.
He sat down suddenly and wrote out a short note, a note that showed the vote had McInnis been present. He added, Show this to the judge. Then he enclosed it in an envelope, and decided he would send it to the newspaper office by Shoshone Charlie.
Carefully, he oiled his guns and checked his rifle. Then he made up several small packs of food and laid out some ammunition. He was going to be ready for trouble now, for
it was coming. He could wait, and they might never get to him, but he preferred to strike first. Also, he had his cattle to deliver.
Mexie Roberts was not a man who hurried. Small, dark, and careful, he moved like an Indian in the hills. For several days now he had been studying the Lazy K from various vantage points. He had watched Texas Dowd carefully. Knowing the West as he did, he knew Dowd was a man whom one might never get a chance to shoot at twice. Mexie Roberts prided himself on never having to shoot more than once. His trade was killing, and he knew the tricks of his trade.
Lying on his belly in the dust among the clumps of greasewood, he watched every soul on the Lazy K. Shifting his glass from person to person, he soon began to learn their ways and their habits.
He was not worried about hitting Dowd, once he got him in his sights. The Sharps .50 he carried was a gun he understood like the working of his own right hand.
There was no mercy in Mexie Roberts. Killing was born in him as it is in a weasel or a hawk. He killed, and killed in cold blood. It was his pride that he had never been arrested, never tried, never even accused. Some men had their suspicions, but no man could offer evidence.
He had been given the job of killing Dowd, and there was in the job a measure of personal pride as well as the money. Texas Dowd was to Mexie Roberts what a Bengal tiger is to a big-game hunter. He was the final test. Hunting Dowd was hunting death in its most virulent form.
In a few days now, perhaps a few hours, he would be ready. Then Dowd would die, and when he died, there would be no one near to see where the shot came from, and Mexie Roberts would have his hideaway carefully chosen.
All over Laird Valley tides of trouble and danger were rising. Men moved along the streets of Laird with cautious eyes, scanning each newcomer, watching, waiting.
In his office beside the barbershop, Judge Gardner Collins moved a man into the king row and crowned him. Doc Finerty rubbed his jaw and studied the board with thoughtful eyes. Neither man had his mind on the game.
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 1 Page 49
