Ride the Man Down

by Short, Luke;

  Will stood by him and peered out into the street. From a corner of the blacksmith shop and from the far corner of the store men were shooting into the saloon.

  Will said, “Your new friends aren’t so tough, Ed,” and he drifted into the darkness, moving far downstreet. When he was in complete darkness he crossed the road, and now he heard someone with a shotgun, probably the store clerk, blasting away at the rear door of the saloon. He came up the road now until he was a hundred feet from the blacksmith shop and on the same side of the street.

  Fading into the darkness behind the old mill boiler, he reloaded, watching the patient marksmen—two of them—at the corner of the blacksmith shop.

  Now he stepped out and shot twice at the figures by the building and, turning, he ran behind the boiler and, still running, cut back of it, heading for the rear of the shop.

  One man pounded past the rear corner, and Will collided with the second as they both ran for the corner. Will put a hand on his back and shoved viciously, and the runner sprawled off into the darkness, and Will heard him crash among the stacked scrap iron beyond the back wall of the shop.

  Rounding the corner now, Will saw Schultz paused by a window in the store’s rear, feverishly loading his gun. Will shot once and he saw Schultz half turn to look and then, panic on him, dive for the store’s rear door.

  He had it half open when Will hit, crashing it shut. He caromed off it into Schultz, and they both went down. Will fell into the woodpile away from Schultz, who scrambled to his feet. Will slipped once getting up and shot again at Schultz, who was running blindly along the rear of the faintly lighted store building.

  And then Will, running again now, heard a crash and the shriek of rending boards, and above that the wild cursing of Schultz. He hauled up, seeing Schultz on the ground Bide’s foreman, in his panic, had run full tilt into the shed forming the L at the rear of the store.

  Schultz velled wildly, “Don’t, Will!”

  He staggered heavily to his feet now and moved into the dim light cast through the rear window of the store. Beyond them, out in the street, the shooting continued with the same senseless vehemence.

  Schultz had his hands shoulders high, and one leg of his overalls was ripped almost off and was dragging. A jagged gash in his leg was bleeding, and his heavy face now was distorted with his deep, heavy breathing.

  Will, breathing heavily, too, said, “Where’s my horse, Russ?”

  “In the blacksmith shop,” Schultz panted.

  Will waited until his breath eased, and then he said, “Russ, you tell Bide I’m through waiting. Tell him that.”

  He left Schultz and went back to the blacksmith shop and pulled open the doors. The shooting in the street was muffled in here, and Will led his hone out into the night and mounted.

  He put him behind the old boiler and then, reining up in the street, he called, “Red! Red Courteen!”

  The shooting slacked off and Will yelled, “I’ll be back and pay you, Red!”

  Almost at once the shooting was resumed, and this time in his direction. He rode off down the road, listening, and above the hammering din of the shooting he heard Red Courteen’s wild cursing.

  Chapter 7

  Ike Adams was not in a loving mood as he rode toward Hatchet this afternoon. This morning his last two real cow hands had quit. They were certain that the disappearance of John Evarts was the start of a bitter fight, and they didn’t want any of it. They refused to wait for Will even, directing that their pay be mailed them. That left Hatchet with Ike, the cook, and the two rawhiders. Ike was bitter about the Young brothers. Hatchet’s reputation was something dear to Ike, and he did not like to see it placed in the care of a couple of broke, thieving saddle bums who were rawhiders in the bargain. Proof of their shiftlessness, if further proof were needed, had been presented to Ike this morning.

  On leaving Hatchet he had directed them to ride a piece of the west boundary and meet him at a spot on the north range, where Ike expected another of the Indian Ridge trash would have run in some cattle. The cattle hadn’t been there, and no trouble occurred, but the defections of the Young boys galled him. On the way back he had occupied his time with framing a blistering report on them to Will.

  He came into Hatchet through the low hills to the north and skirted the house, and only when he was in the clear did he see the knot of horses and men down by the corral.

  He put spurs to his horse and, approaching closer, saw Harve Garretson from up in the Indigos. He was dismounted and he was talking vehemently to the two rawhiders. They were lounging lazily against the corral gate, listening idly, while a mounted man, a hand of Garretson’s, watched.

  As Ike rode up the Young boys glanced over at him, and Garretson, seeing them look, turned in Ike’s direction. Garretson was a colorless, nondescript man of middle age who had a reputation of being a shrewd trader and minding his own business. He was dressed in a black suit, and his roan mustaches were so full they gave him a lugubrious air.

  When he saw Ike he gestured wildly, pointing to the horse pasture, and said angrily, “Ike, I’ve got a hundred head of cattle in there and I want ’em back!”

  Ike looked sharply at the Young boys. Mel had a boot heel hooked over one of the gate poles, and his battered Stetson was shoved back off his forehead. He was chewing idly on a hay straw and when he looked at Ike his eyes were mild, innocent.

  “What’s this?” Ike demanded.

  “You told us to watch out for any strange beef this side of the line, didn’t you?”

  Ike looked at Garretson and said cautiously, “Some of your stuff stray over, Harve?”

  “Five miles over,” Jim Young drawled. He was squatted by Mel, and his eyes also were innocent, Ike noticed.

  Garretson said angrily, “I’ll give you a chance to return ’em, Ike, and I’ll forget to tell Will about this.”

  Ike, up to now, had been faintly embarrassed, remembering that Garretson, like all the outfits in the Indigos, had been good neighbors to Hatchet. But Ike didn’t like threats, and after considering this a moment he decided it was a threat.

  He said, “I’ll tell him myself. How far over the line was your stuff?”

  “Five miles,” Jim Young repeated.

  Ike said flatly, “I’m askin’ him,” to Jim Young.

  Mel said, “Jim just wanted to be sure you heard right.”

  Ike, nettled, turned back to Garretson. “That right?”

  Garretson came over to him and put a hand on Ike’s horse, and now his voice was confidential. “That’s right, Ike. Only let’s get some sense into this talk.”

  Ike didn’t say anything, and Garretson went on persuasively, “You know and I know that Will and John Evarts don’t aim to try and keep all of old Hatchet. They can’t. Well, these cattle”—he gestured toward the horse pasture—“are my claim to that chunk that borders on me. That’s only reasonable, ain’t it?”

  “You’re pretty sure,” Ike drawled ominously.

  “Sure?” Garretson laughed easily. “Know who’s part owner of them cattle with me, Ike? Lowell Priest.”

  Ike was startled. The whole country knew that Will was going to marry Lottie Priest someday. Certainly Priest wouldn’t allow his cattle to be driven onto Hatchet, risking seizure, unless Will had given the word to go ahead. But Will hadn’t said anything to him, and that was enough for Ike.

  He said, “Mebbeso. I’ll ask him.”

  “That’s right,” Garretson said, and he turned to the Young brothers. “I told you fellows this was Priest’s herd. Now help me cut ’em out!”

  “They’ll keep right here,” Ike said.

  Garretson turned on him. “You mean you’re goin’ to hold ’em anyway?”

  “Till Will says to drive ’em back, I am.”

  Garretson stood there, speechless with anger. Jim Young rose and handed him two six-guns and drawled mildly, “We’ll let you know what he says.”

  Garretson took the two guns, gave one to his man, who had watche
d this with utter indifference, and tramped over to his own horse. He stepped into the saddle and pulled his horse around, facing Ike.

  “You’ll be damn sorry for this, Ike!” he shouted, shaking his fist. “The whole scummy crew of you will get your time for this!”

  “Good-by, Mr. Garretson,” Ike said dryly.

  Garretson roweled his horse, and his puncher fell in beside him, and they rode rapidly down the fence line.

  Ike looked over at the herd in the horse pasture. Garretson’s bunch had been the biggest catch yet. The grass was nearly gone in the pasture, and Ike didn’t have any idea what Will was going to do with all the captive cattle, but it was at least tangible evidence that Hatchet was fighting. He looked now at the Youngs.

  Mel said, “We kind of figured we already had this bunch, and we didn’t have that other bunch you was talkin’ about, so we brought ’em in.”

  “Any trouble?”

  “One fella argued. We didn’t bring him along.”

  Ike grinned then, and surprisingly the Young brothers grinned back at him.

  “Maybe,” Ike said in a dry, dubious voice, “you’ll make Hatchet hands yet.”

  Chapter 8

  It was the following afternoon that Celia heard the door into the office close and she said, “Wait, Sam,” and went into the corridor. Paused there, she listened, head tilted and looking absently at Sam, who had ceased his pacing in the exact center of the pattern on the living-room carpet.

  She heard movement in the office and started hurriedly down the corridor. Halfway, the office door opened and Will started through it and then, seeing her, he stopped and stepped back into the office.

  Celia came forward slowly, a kind of dread holding her back. She first saw the somber ugliness in Will’s deep-set eyes, the tough, unforgiving set of his lean jaw, and she knew.

  She said, “John’s dead,” and Will nodded.

  Sam tramped heavily down the corridor and came into the room and said, “What? What’s that, Will?”

  “Cavanaugh shot him.”

  Sam looked skeptical. “How do you know?”

  Briefly Will told of what had passed at Ten Mile and of what the girl had told him.

  Celia only half listened to him. She was gauging the depth of Will’s temper now, listening to his quiet, unemotional, words, and she detected in them a reluctance to talk about this. In herself she strangely felt nothing, and she knew it was because she had expected it, was certain it would happen. In her own mind she had been grieving for John Evarts these past three days, and she knew that Will had too. It was Sam who was shocked, whose slow mind turned over these facts uncomprehendingly, really only half believing them.

  As Will concluded he was looking at her, talking to her, and she had a fleeting glimpse of his anger. He would be as implacable as an Indian now, and Celia, seeing this, was afraid.

  Will said to her, “Hatchet’s yours now, Celia,” and walked over to the desk.

  She didn’t say anything, and Will turned and looked searchingly at her. Then his glance dropped and he said quietly, “I’m quitting.” His glance raised quickly again, holding hers, searching for understanding.

  I’ve got to be careful, Celia thought, and she said nothing. She walked over to the worn sofa and sat on it, hearing Sam say, “There’s nothing more you can do, Will,” in an unctuous tone of voice that she hated.

  Will didn’t look at Sam, didn’t answer him. He came out into the middle of the room, facing her, his big shoulders a little stooped, and he was waiting for her answer.

  Celia understood instinctively that a choice was here and that it would be irrevocable. Will was going to kill a man, and he did not want her to share the blame. If she was silent Will would ride off Hatchet and never blame her for her decision, and she knew deep within her that she would not let him go. He was a part of her and a part of her life. If she had liked that in him which she had seen each day these past six years then she must like this, because this was Will Ballard too. Nothing mattered now, except that she must take the ugly with the fine. And even now, Will was generous; he was trying to free her of any responsibility.

  Only a corner of her mind acknowledged Sam Danfelser as she said, “I’ll stand by you, Will.”

  Will said, “Celia, I—”

  “I know,” Celia said quickly. “If it’s what you have to do, Will, then do it. I’ll stand by you.”

  Sam looked in puzzlement from one to the other, not understanding this. Neither of them was including him, and he said in flat protest, “Celia, what are you talking about?”

  Will looked at him and said, “Cavanaugh.”

  Sam didn’t even understand then for a long moment, but when he did the alarm in his eyes was immediate.

  “Now wait, Will,” he began.

  Will said flatly, harshly, “Cavanaugh killed John,” and he turned and left the room.

  Celia didn’t watch him; she tucked one foot under her and was aware that Sam’s outraged glance was on her. He came over to her and said, as if he were talking to a child, “But he’s going to kill Cavanaugh.”

  “I know.” Celia’s slim face held a sadness he did not see.

  “But, Celia!” Sam said harshly. “That’s murder!”

  Celia shook her head. “No, Sam. That’s less than murder for murder, and you know it.”

  She rose and brushed past him, and Sam put out his hand and took her elbow. She didn’t fight against him; she let him turn her around to face him, and she was not even angry. She was thinking bitterly, Poor Will.

  Sam said accusingly, “You let him go.”

  “Dad trusted Will. I do too.”

  Sam shook her roughly in his impatience. “But don’t you understand? He’s going out to murder a man, and you let him go!”

  “Let me go, Sam,” Celia said quietly.

  Sam looked down at his hand which was grasping her arm tightly, and then he let go of her. He shook his head from side to side almost like a man in pain. “But, Celia, we have laws; we have a sheriff; we have a jail; we have a judge; we can get a jury. Try the man. Don’t kill him!”

  Celia responded, “This is Will’s affair.”

  “But you wouldn’t let him quit Hatchet! You asked him to stay on, knowing where he was going. You’re to blame as much as he is!”

  “And I’m willing to take it.”

  Sam was baffled. There was a terrible urgency in his face, in his eyes, and Celia felt a momentary pity for him. He was like a man who suddenly discovers among friends that his language is unaccountably not understood by them.

  She said quietly, “Sam, there’s so much you don’t understand. There’s lots I don’t, too, but I understand the way Will feels now. Don’t you see? Hatchet’s on trial. Will we revenge our own or will we take this to a lawyer and watch him argue in a courtroom in front of all those people who hate us and hold us in contempt?” She shook her head, her eyes pleading. “Don’t you see that Will can’t do it, Sam? Right or wrong, he’s got to do it this way.”

  Sam spoke with a thick fury in his voice. “You talk like a drunken squaw!”

  “I guess I do,” Celia said quietly, miserably—and stubbornly.

  They stood there facing each other, neither speaking, Sam solid and implacable and filled with a righteous fury. Celia seemed even smaller than usual now in her meekness. But she did not go to him; she faced him, reading angry, unspoken thoughts in his ruddy face.

  Sam groaned softly. “Why, Celia?” he pleaded softly. “Why?” His eyes were questioning, too, and Celia would rather have faced his anger.

  “It’s just the way I am, Sam,” she answered quietly.

  Sam hesitated a moment, and a slow, shrinking distaste came into his face as he said, “Are you in love with Will?”

  “I’m going to marry you, Sam,” Celia said quietly.

  “He’s done something to you,” Sam said slowly, wrathfully. “He’s changed you into something—something I can’t put a name to—until now you can tell him to go
out and kill a man, and it doesn’t do, anything to you.”

  Celia was silent, accepting this. Everything Sam said was true, and yet she felt no guilt and she wondered why.

  Sam turned away from her as if to go out, and then he paused and came back. “Celia,” he said grimly, “you’re going to get rid of Will.”

  There was a fleeting protest in Celia’s gray eyes, and she did not answer.

  Sam started for the door again, and Celia said, “Where are you going, Sam?”

  “To tell him he’s through with Hatchet.”

  “But he isn’t,” Celia said quietly. “You can tell him, but he won’t believe you.”

  There was a pride in her now as she went on back into the corridor, leaving Sam alone.

  He stood there scowling at the door and then went after her. Turning into the living room, he walked across to the sofa where his hat lay. He picked it up and stepped out into the late-afternoon sun and headed for the corral where he had turned his horse in.

  Jim Young, watching him from the bunkhouse steps, drifted down to the corral after him. Ike, since the brush with Garretson yesterday, had left him at the ranch to keep watch over the captive herd in the horse pasture.

  He held open the gate for Sam, who did not even bother to nod his thanks. Jim watched him head out north, taking the same trail Will had taken before him.

  Paused at the gate, Jim Young considered. He could read murder in a man’s eyes, and he had read it in this heavy man’s face, just as he had read it in Will’s face a half-hour ago, both when he went into the house and came out. Will hadn’t even spoken to him, but Jim knew.

  There was a moment of indecision as he watched Sam’s stocky horse disappear beyond the house. Then, with only a faint stirring of conscience, Jim reached for his rope on the gatepost and stepped inside the corral to catch his horse.

  There was not a light in Cavanaugh’s place. Will made sure of that before he drifted down the timbered slope in the darkness sometime after midnight and came into the hard-packed yard in front of the mean shack that lay deep and remote in the Ridge country.