He walked faster and faster. Then he broke into a stumbling run, fear rising within him. Something brought him up short, and for a moment he did not see what had caused him to halt in his blind rush. Then hope broke over him like a cold shower of rain.
There on the sand beneath his feet were tiny tracks. He bent over them. A pack rat or some other tiny creature. Getting up, he hurried on, and, seeing a faint glow ahead, he rushed around a bend. There before him was the feeble glow of the fading day. His torch guttered and went out.
He walked on to the cave mouth, trembling in every limb. Mac Marcy was standing in an old watercourse that came out from behind some boulders not two miles from his cabin. He stumbled home and fell into his bunk, almost too tired to undress.
Marcy awakened to a frantic pounding on his door. Staggering erect, he pulled on his boots, yelling out as he did so. Then he drew on his Levi’s and shirt and opened the door, buttoning his shirt with one hand.
Sally, her face deathly pale, was standing outside. Beyond her gray mare stood Marcy’s moros. At the sight of him the grayish black horse lifted his head and pricked up his ears.
“Oh,” Sally gasped. “I thought you were dead…drowned.”
He stepped over beside her.
“No,” he said, “I guess I’m still here. You’re pretty scared, ma’am. What’s there for you to be scared about?”
“Why,” she burst out impatiently, “if you…” She caught herself and stopped abruptly. “After all,” she continued coolly, “no one wants to find a friend drowned.”
“Ma’am,” he said sincerely, “if you get that wrought up, I’ll get myself almost drowned every day.”
She stared at him and then smiled. “I think you’re a fool,” she said. She mounted and turned. “But a nice fool.”
Marcy stared after her thoughtfully. Well now, maybe…
He glanced down at his boots. Where they had lain in the pool, there was water stain on them. Also, there was a small green leaf clinging to the rough leather. He stooped and picked it off, wadded it up, and started to throw it away when he was struck by an idea. He unfolded the leaf and studied the veins. Suddenly his face broke into a grin.
“Boy,” he said to the moros, “we got us a job to do, even if you do need a rest.” He swung into the saddle and rode back toward the watercourse, still grinning.
It was midafternoon when he returned to the cabin and ate a leisurely lunch, still chuckling. Then he mounted again and started for the old water hole that had been fenced by Jingle Bob Kenyon.
When Marcy rounded the bend, he could see that something was wrong. A dozen men were gathered around the water hole. Nearby and astride her gray was Sally.
The men were in serious conference, and they did not notice Marcy’s approach. He rode up, leaning on the horn of the saddle, and watched them, smiling.
Suddenly Vin Ricker looked up. His face went hard. Mac Marcy swung down and strolled up to the fence, leaning casually on a post.
“What’s up?”
“The water hole’s gone dry!” Kenyon exploded. “Not a drop o’ water in it.”
Smothering a grin, Marcy rolled a smoke.
“Well,” he said philosophically, “the Lord giveth and He taketh away. No doubt it’s the curse of the Lord for your greed, Jingle Bob.”
Kenyon glared at him suspiciously. “You know somethin’ about this?” he demanded. “Man, in this hot weather my cattle will die by the hundreds. Somethin’s got to be done.”
“Seems to me,” Marcy said dryly, “I have heard those words before.”
Sally was looking at him over her father’s head, her face grave and questioning. But she said nothing, gave no sign of approval or disapproval.
“This here’s a man’s country,” Marcy said seriously. “You fork your own bronc’s and you get your own water.”
Kenyon flushed. “Marcy, if you know anythin’ about this, for goodness sake spill it. My cows will die. Maybe I was too stiff about this, but there’s somethin’ mighty funny goin’ on here. This water hole ain’t failed in twenty years.”
“Let me handle him,” Riker snarled. “I’m just achin’ to git my hands on him.”
“Don’t ache too hard, or you’ll git your wish,” Marcy drawled, and he crawled through the fence. “All right, Kenyon, we’ll talk business,” Marcy said to the rancher. “You had me stuck yesterday with my tail in a crack. Now you got yours in one. I cut off your water to teach you a lesson. You’re a blamed old highbinder, and it’s high time you had some teeth pulled.
“Nobody but me knows how that water’s cut off and where. If I don’t change it, nobody can. So listen to what I’m saying. I’m going to have all the water I need after this on my own place, but this here hole stays open. No fences.
“This morning, when I went up to cut off your water, I saw some cow tracks. I’m missing a powerful lot of cows. I followed the tracks into a hidden draw and found three hundred of my cattle and about a hundred head of yours, all nicely corralled and ready to be herded across the border.
“While I was looking over the hide-out, I spied Ricker there. John Soley then came riding up with about thirty head of your cattle, and they run ’em in with the rest.”
“You’re a liar!” Ricker burst out, his face tense, and he dropped into a crouch, his fingers spread.
Marcy was unmoved. “No, I ain’t bluffing. You try to prove where you were about nine this morning. And don’t go trying to get me into a gunfight. I ain’t a-going to draw, and you don’t dare shoot me down in front of witnesses. But you take off those guns, and I’ll…”
Ricker’s face was ugly. “You bet I’ll take ’em off! I allus did want a crack at that purty face o’ yours.”
He stripped off his guns and swung them to Soley in one movement. Then he rushed.
A wicked right swing caught Marcy before he dropped his gun belt and got his hands up, and it knocked him reeling into the dirt.
Ricker charged, his face livid, trying to kick Marcy with his boots, but Marcy rolled over and got on his feet. He lunged and swung a right that clipped Ricker on the temple. Then Marcy stabbed the rustler with a long left. They started to slug.
Neither had any knowledge of science. Both were raw and tough and hard-bitten. Toe to toe, bloody and bitter, they slugged it out. Ricker, confident and the larger of the two men, rushed in swinging. One of his swings cut Marcy’s eye; another started blood gushing from Marcy’s nose. Ricker set himself and threw a hard right for Marcy’s chin, but the punch missed as Marcy swung one to the body that staggered Ricker.
They came in again, and Marcy’s big fist pulped the rustler’s lips, smashing him back on his heels. Then Marcy followed it in, swinging with both hands. His breath came in great gasps, but his eyes were blazing. He charged in, following Ricker relentlessly.
Suddenly Marcy’s right caught the gunman and knocked him to his knees. Marcy stepped back and let him get up, and then knocked him sliding on his face in the sand. Ricker tried to get up, but he fell back, bloody and beaten.
Swiftly, before the slow-thinking Soley realized what was happening, Marcy spun and grabbed one of his own guns and turned it on this rustler.
“Drop ’em,” he snapped. “Unbuckle your belt and step back.”
Jingle Bob Kenyon leaned on his saddle horn, chewing his pipe stem thoughtfully.
“What,” he drawled, “would you have done if he drawed his gun?”
Marcy looked up, surprised. “Why, I’d have killed him, of course.” He glanced over at Sally, and then looked back at Kenyon. “Before we get off the subject,” he said, “we finish our deal. I’ll turn your water back into this hole…I got it stopped up away back inside the mountain…but, as I said, the hole stays open to anybody. Also”—Marcy’s face colored a little—“I’m marrying Sally.”
“You’re what?” Kenyon glared, and then jerked around to look at his daughter.
Sally’s eyes were bright. “You heard him, Father,” she replied coolly.
“I’m taking back with me those six steers he gave you so he can get them to water.”
Marcy was looking at Kenyon when suddenly Marcy grinned.
“I reckon,” he said, “you had your lesson. Sally and me have got a lot of talking to do.”
Marcy swung aboard the moros, and he and Sally started off together.
Jingle Bob Kenyon stared after them, grim humor in his eyes.
“I wonder,” he said, “what he would have done if Ricker had drawed?”
Old Joe Linger grinned and looked over at Kenyon from under his bushy brows. “Jest what he said. He’d’ve kilt him. That’s Quaker John McMarcy, the hombre that wiped out the Mullen gang single-handed. He jest don’t like to fight, that’s all.”
“It sure does beat all,” Kenyon said thoughtfully. “The trouble a man has to go to git him a good son-in-law these days.”
West of the Tularosa
I
The dead man had gone out fighting. Scarcely more than a boy, and a dandy in dress, he had been man enough when the showdown came.
Propped against the fireplace stones, legs stretched before him, loose fingers still touching the butt of his .45 Colt, he had smoked it out to a bloody, battle-stained finish. Evidence of it lay all about him. Whoever killed him had spent time, effort, and blood to do it.
As they closed in for the pay-off at least one man had died on the threshold.
The fight that ended here had begun elsewhere. From the looks of it this cabin had been long deserted, and the dead man’s spurs were bloodstained. At least one of his wounds showed evidence of being much older than the others. A crude attempt had been made to stop the bleeding.
Baldy Jackson, one of the Tumbling K riders who found the body, dropped to his knees and picked up the dead man’s Colt.
“Empty,” he said. “He fought ’em until his guns were empty, an’ then they killed him.”
“Is he still warm?” McQueen asked. “I think I can smell powder smoke.”
“He ain’t been an hour dead, I’d guess. Wonder what the fuss was about?”
“It worries me”—McQueen looked around—“considering our situation.” He glanced at Bud Fox and Kim Sartain, who appeared in the doorway. “What’s out there?”
“At least one of their boys rode away still losing blood. By the look of things this lad didn’t go out alone. He took somebody with him.” Sartain was rolling a smoke. “No feed in the shed, but that horse out there carries a mighty fine saddle.”
“Isn’t this the place we’re headed for?” Fox asked. “It looks like the place described.”
Sartain’s head came up. “Somebody comin’,” he said. “Riders, an’ quite a passel of them.”
Sartain flattened against the end of the fireplace and Fox knelt behind a windowsill. Ward McQueen planted his stalwart frame in the doorway, waiting. “This isn’t so good. We’re going to be found with a dead man, just killed.”
There were a half dozen riders in the approaching group, led by a stocky man on a gray horse and a tall, oldish man wearing a badge.
They drew up sharply on seeing the horses and McQueen. The short man stared at McQueen, visibly upset by his presence. “Who’re you? And what are you doin’ here?”
“I’ll ask the same question,” McQueen spoke casually. “This is Firebox range, isn’t it?”
“I know that.” The stocky man’s tone was testy. “I ought to. I own the Firebox.”
“Do you now?” Ward McQueen’s reply was gentle, inquiring. “Might be a question about that. Ever hear of Tom McCracken?”
“Of course. He used to own the Firebox.”
“That’s right, and he sold it to Ruth Kermitt of the Tumbling K. I’m Ward McQueen, her foreman. I’ve come to take possession.”
His reply was totally unexpected, and the stocky man was obviously astonished. His surprise held him momentarily speechless, and then he burst out angrily.
“That’s impossible! I’m holdin’ notes against young Jimmy McCracken. He was the old man’s heir, an’ Jimmy signed the place over to me to pay up.”
“As of when?” Ward asked.
His thoughts were already leaping ahead, reading sign along the trail they must follow. Obviously something was very wrong, but he was sure that Ruth’s deed, a copy of which he carried with him, would be dated earlier than whatever this man had. Moreover, he knew that the dead man lying behind him was that same Jimmy McCracken.
“That’s neither here nor there. Get off my land or be drove off.”
“Take it easy, Webb.” The sheriff spoke for the first time. “This man may have a just claim. If Tom McCracken sold out before he died, your paper isn’t worth two hoots.”
That this had occurred to Webb was obvious, and that he did not like it was apparent. Had the sheriff not been present, Ward was sure, there would have been a shooting. As yet, they did not know he was not alone, as none of the Tumbling K men had shown themselves.
“Sheriff,” McQueen said, “my outfit rode in here about fifteen minutes ago, and we found a dead man in this cabin. Looks like he lost a running fight with several men, and, when his ammunition gave out, they killed him.”
“Or you shot him,” Webb said.
Ward did not move from the door. He was a big man, brown from sun and wind, lean and muscular. He wore two guns.
“I shot nobody.” His tone was level, even. “Sheriff, I’m Ward McQueen. My boss bought this place from McCracken for cash money. The deed was delivered to her, and the whole transaction was recorded in the courts. All that remained was for us to take possession, which we have done.”
He paused. “The man who is dead inside is unknown to me, but I’m making a guess he’s Jimmy McCracken. Whoever killed him wanted him dead mighty bad. There were quite a few of them, and Jimmy did some good shooting. One thing you might look for is a couple of wounded men, or somebody else who turns up dead.”
The sheriff dismounted. “I’ll look around, McQueen. My name’s Foster, Bill Foster.” He waved a hand to the stocky cattleman. “This is Neal Webb, owner of the Runnin’ W.”
Ward McQueen stepped aside to admit the sheriff, and, as he did so, Kim Sartain showed up at the corner of the house, having stepped through a window to the outside. Kim Sartain was said to be as good with his guns as McQueen.
Foster squatted beside the body. “Yeah, this is young Jimmy, all right. Looks like he put up quite a scrap.”
“He was game,” McQueen said. He indicated the older wound. “He’d been shot somewhere and rode in here, riding for his life. Look at the spurs. He tried to get where there was help but didn’t make it.”
Foster studied the several wounds and the empty cartridge cases. McQueen told him of the hard-ridden mustang, but the sheriff wanted to see for himself. Watching the old man, McQueen felt renewed confidence. The lawman was careful and shrewd, taking nothing for granted, accepting no man’s unsupported word. That McQueen and his men were in a bad position was obvious.
Neal Webb was obviously a cattleman of some local importance. The Tumbling K riders were not only strangers but they had been found with the body.
Webb was alert and aware. He had swiftly catalogued the Tumbling K riders as a tough lot, if pushed. McQueen he did not know, but the foreman wore his guns with the ease of long practice. Few men carried two guns, most of them from the Texas border country. Nobody he knew of used both at once; the second gun was insurance, but it spoke of a man prepared for trouble.
Webb scowled irritably. The set-up had been so perfect. The old man dead, the gambling debts, and the bill of sale. All that remained was to…and then this outfit appeared with what was apparently a legitimate claim. Who would ever dream the old man would sell out. But how had the sale been arranged? There might still be a way, short of violence.
What would Silas Hutch say? And Ren Oliver? It angered Webb to realize he had failed, after all his promises. Yet who could have foreseen this? It had all appeared so simple, but who could have believed that youngs
ter would put up a fight like he did? He had been a laughing, friendly youngster, showing no sense of responsibility, no steadiness of purpose. He had been inclined to side-step trouble rather than face it, so the whole affair had looked simple enough.
One thing after another had gone wrong. First, the ambush failed. The kid got through it alive and then had made a running fight of it. Why he had headed for this place Webb could not guess, unless he had known the Tumbling K outfit was to be here.
Two of Webb’s best men were dead and three wounded, and he would have to keep them out of sight until they were well again. Quickly he decided the line cabin on Dry Legget would be the best hide-out.
Foster came from the woods, his face serious.
“McQueen, you’d better ride along to town with me. I found sign that six or seven men were in this fight, and several were killed or hurt. This requires investigation.”
“You mean I’m under arrest?”
“No such thing. Only you’ll be asked questions. We’ll check your deed an’ prob’ly have to get your boss up here. We’re goin’ to get to the bottom of this.”
“One thing, Foster, before we go. I’d like you to check our guns. Nobody among us has fired a shot for days. I’d like you to know that.”
You could have switched guns,” Webb suggested.
McQueen ignored him. “Kim, why don’t you fork your bronc’ and ride along with us? Baldy, you and Bud stay here and let nobody come around unless it’s the sheriff or one of us. Got it?”
“You bet.” Jackson spat a stream of tobacco juice at an ant. “Nobody’ll come around, believe me.”
Neal Webb kept his mouth shut but he watched irritably. McQueen was thinking of everything, but, as Webb watched the body of young McCracken being tied over a saddle, he had an idea. Jimmy had been well liked around town, so if the story got around that McQueen was his killer, there might be no need for a trial or even a preliminary hearing. It was too bad Foster was so stiff-necked.
Kim Sartain did not ride with the group. With his Winchester across his saddlebow he kept off to the flank or well back in the rear where the whole group could be watched. Sheriff Foster noted this, and his frosty old eyes glinted with amused appreciation.
West of the Tularosa Page 12
