He stepped into the store, anxious to get away from the curious eyes. The store was more sparsely stocked than Hutch’s much larger store, but the stock gave evidence of careful selection and a discriminating taste. There were many things a Western store did not normally stock.
“I have a wash basin,” she suggested. “I think you’d better take a look at yourself in a mirror.”
“I will,” he said, grinning a little, “but I’d rather not.” He glanced around again. “Do you stock shirts by any chance? Man-size shirts?”
She looked at him critically. “I do, and I believe I have one that would fit you.”
She indicated the door to the wash basin, and then went among the stacks of goods on the shelves behind the counter.
A glance in the mirror and he saw what she meant. His face was battered and bloody, his hair mussed. He could do little about the battering, but the blood he could wash away, and he did so. The back door opened on a small area surrounded by a high fence. It was shaded by several old elms and a cottonwood or two, and in the less shaded part there were flowers. He washed his face, holding compresses on his swollen cheekbones and lip. Then he combed his hair.
Sharon Clarity came with a shirt. It was a dark blue shirt with two pockets. He stripped off the rags of his other shirt and donned the new one and dusted off his hat.
She gave him a quick look and a smile when he emerged, saying: “It’s an improvement, anyway.” She folded some other shirts and returned them to the shelves.
He paid for the shirt she had provided, and she said: “You know what you’ve done, don’t you? You’ve whipped the toughest man in Bear Cañon. Whipped him in a stand-up fight. Nobody has ever done that, and nobody has even come close. Nobody has even tried for a long time.”
She paused, frowning a little. “It puzzles me a little. Warneke isn’t usually quarrelsome. That’s the first time I ever saw him start a fight.”
“Somebody may have given him an idea. I hadn’t had time to even think about Bear Cañon. I haven’t even ridden over the ranch, and yet he had the idea we were about to run the nesters off.”
She looked at him appraisingly, at the wide shoulders, the narrow hips. There was power in every line of him, a power she had just seen unleashed with utter savagery. Having grown up with four brawling brothers, she knew something about men. This one had fought coolly, skillfully. “You’ve started something, you know. That Bear Cañon outfit is tough. Even Neal Webb’s boys fight shy of them.”
“Webb has a tough outfit?”
“You’ve seen some of them. There are two or three known killers in the bunch. Why he keeps them, I couldn’t say.”
“Like Bemis, for example?”
“You know Harve Bemis? He’s one of them, but not the worst by a long shot. The worst ones are Overlin and Bine.”
These were names he knew. Bine he had never seen, but he knew a good deal about him, as did any cattleman along the border country of Texas. An occasional outlaw and suspected rustler, he had run with the Youngers in Missouri before riding south to Texas.
Overlin was a Montana gun hand known around Bannock and Alder Gulch, but he had ridden the cattle trails from Texas several times and was a skilled cowhand, as well. McQueen had seen him in Abilene and at Doan’s Crossing. On that occasion he himself had killed an outlaw who was trying to cut the herd with which McQueen was riding. The fact that such men rode with Webb made the situation serious.
He purchased several items, and then hired a man with a wagon to freight the stuff to the Firebox. Kim Sartain was loitering in front of the saloon when McQueen came down to get his horse.
“Bemis ain’t around,” he confided, “an’ it’s got folks wonderin’ because he usually plays poker at the Bat Cave Saloon. Nobody’s seen him around for several days.” He paused. “I didn’t ask. I just listened.”
III
For three days the Firebox was unmolested, and in those three days much was accomplished. The shake roof needed fixing, and some fences had to be repaired. Baldy had that job, and, when he finished, he stood back and looked it over with satisfaction. “Bud, that there’s an elephant-proof fence.”
“Elephant-proof? You mean an elephant couldn’t get past that fence? You’re off your trail.”
“Of course it’s elephant-proof. You don’t see any elephants in there, do you?”
Bud Fox just looked at him and rode away.
All hands were in the saddle from ten to twelve hours a day. The cattle were more numerous than expected, especially the younger stuff. Several times McQueen cut trails made by groups of riders, most of them several days old. Late on the afternoon of the third day he rode down the steep slope to the bottom of a small cañon near the eastern end of the Dillons and found blood on the grass.
The stain was old and dark but unmistakably blood. He walked his horse around, looking for sign. He found a leaf with blood on it, then another. The blood had come from someone riding a horse, a horse that toed in slightly. Following the trail he came to where several other horsemen had joined the wounded man. One of the other horses was obviously a led horse.
Men had been wounded in the fight with McCracken. Could these be the same? If so, where were they going? He rode on over the Dillons and off what was accepted as Firebox range. He had crossed a saddle to get into this narrow cañon, but farther along it seemed to open into a wider one. He pushed on, his Winchester in his hands.
The buckskin he rode was a mountain horse accustomed to rough travel. Moreover, it was fast and had stamina, the sort of horse a man needed when riding into trouble. The country into which he now ventured was unknown to him, wild and rough. The cañon down which he rode opened into a wider valley that tightened up into another deep, narrow cañon. Before him was a small stream. The riders had turned downcañon.
It was dusk and shadows gathered in the cañons, only a faint red glow from the setting sun crested the rim of the cañon. Towering black walls lifted about him, and on the rocky edge across the way a dead, lightning-blasted pine pointed a warning finger from the cliff. The narrow valley was deep in the mystery of darkness, and the only sound that came from the stream was a faint rustling. Then wind sighed in the junipers and the buckskin stopped, head up, ears pricked.
“Ssh,” he whispered, putting a warning hand on the buckskin’s neck. “Take it easy, boy. Take it easy now.”
The horse stepped forward, seeming almost to walk on tiptoe. This was the Box, one of the deepest cañons in the area. McCracken had spoken of it during their discussions that led to his sale of the ranch.
Suddenly he glimpsed a faint light on the rock wall. Speaking softly to the buckskin, he slid from the saddle, leaving his rifle in the scabbard.
Careful to allow no jingle of spurs, he felt his way along the sandy bottom. Rounding a shoulder of rock, he saw a small campfire and the moving shadow of a man in a wide hat. Crouching near a bush, he saw that shadow replaced by another, a man with a bald head.
In the silence of the cañon, where sounds were magnified, he heard a voice. “Feelin’ better, Bemis? We’ll make it to Dry Leggett tomorrow.”
The reply was huskier, the tone complaining. “What’s the boss keepin’ us so far away for? Why didn’t he have us to the Runnin’ W? This hole I got in me is no joke.”
“You got to stay under cover. We’re not even suspected, an’ we won’t be if we play it smart.”
His eyes picked out three men lying near the fire, covered with blankets, one with a bandaged head. One of those who was on his feet was preparing a meal. From the distance he could just make out their faces, the shape of their shoulders, and of the two on their feet the way they moved. Soon he might be fighting these men, and he wanted to know them on sight. The man in the wide hat turned suddenly toward him.
Hansen Bine!
Never before had he seen the man but the grapevine of the trails carried accurate descriptions of such men and of places as well. Gunfighters were much discussed, more than prize fighter
s or baseball players, even more than racehorses or buckers.
Bine was known for his lean, wiry body, the white scar on his chin, and his unnaturally long, thin fingers. “What’s the matter, Bine?” Bemis asked.
“Somethin’ around. I can feel it.”
“Cat, maybe. Lots of big ones in these cañons. I saw one fightin’ a bear one time. A black bear. No lion in his right mind would tackle a grizzly.”
Bine looked again into the night, and then crossed to the fire and seated himself. “Who d’you reckon those riders were who went to the cabin after we left? I saw them headed right for it.”
“The boss, maybe. He was supposed to show up with the sheriff.”
There was silence except for the crackling of the fire, only barely discernible at the distance. The flames played shadow games on the rock wall. Then Bemis spoke: “I don’t like it, Hans. I don’t like it at all. I been shot before, but this one’s bad. I need some care. I need a doctor.”
“Take it easy, Bemis. You’ll get there, all in good time.”
“I don’t like it. Sure, he doesn’t want nobody to know, but I don’t want to die, either.”
Talk died down as the men sat up to eat, and Ward drew carefully back and walked across the sand to his horse. He swung into the saddle and turned the animal, but, as the buckskin lined out to go back along the cañon, its hoof clicked on stone.
He had believed himself far enough away not to be heard, but from behind him he heard a startled exclamation, and Ward put the horse into a lope in the darkness. From behind him there was a challenge, and then a rifle shot, but he was not worried. The shot would have been fired on chance, as Ward knew he could not be seen and there was no straight shot possible in the cañon.
He rode swiftly, so swiftly that he realized he had missed his turn and was following a route up a cañon strange to him. The bulk of the Dillons arose on his right instead of ahead or on his left as they should be. By the stars he could see that the cañon up which he now rode was running east and west and he was headed west. Behind him he heard sounds of pursuit but doubted they would follow far.
The riding was dangerous, as the cañon was a litter of boulders and the trunks of dead trees. A branch cañon opened and he rode into it, his face into a light wind. He heard no further sounds of pursuit and was pleased, wanting no gun battle in these narrow, rock-filled cañons where a ricochet could so easily kill or wound a man. He saw the vague gleam of water and rode his horse into a small mountain stream. Following the stream for what he guessed was close to a mile, he found his way out of the stream to a rocky shelf. A long time later he came upon a trail and the shape of some mountains he recognized.
As he rode, he considered what he had heard. Harve Bemis, as he suspected, had been one of those who attacked Jimmy McCracken. More than likely Bine had been there as well. That, even without what else he knew of Neal Webb, placed the attack squarely on Webb’s shoulders.
With Jimmy McCracken slain and a forged bill of sale, Webb would have been sure nothing could block his claim to the Firebox range.
So what would he do now? Relinquish his attempt to seize the Firebox and let the killing go for nothing? All McQueen’s experience told him otherwise. Webb would seek some other way to advance his claim, and he would seek every opportunity to blacken the reputation of the Tumbling K riders.
The men he had seen in the cañon were headed for Dry Leggett. Where was that? What was it? That he must find out; also he must have a talk with Sheriff Bill Foster. Ruth Kermitt would not like this. She did not like trouble, and yet those who worked for her always seemed to be fighting to protect her interests. Of late she had refused to admit there might be occasions when fighting could not be avoided. She had yet to learn that in order to have peace both sides must want it equally. One side cannot make peace; they can only surrender. Ward McQueen knew of a dozen cases where one side had agreed to lay down their arms if allowed to leave peacefully. In every case of which he knew, the ones who surrendered their arms were promptly massacred.
He had been in love with Ruth since their first meeting, and they had talked of marriage. Several times they had been on the verge of it but something always intervened. Was it altogether accident? Or was one or both of them hesitating? Marriage would be new for each, yet he had always been a freely roving man, going where he willed, living as he wished.
He shook such thoughts from his head. This was no time for personal considerations. He was a ranch foreman with a job to do, a job that might prove both difficult and dangerous. He must put the Firebox on a paying basis.
Their Nevada ranch was still the home ranch, but Ruth had bought land in other states, in Arizona and New Mexico as well as Utah, and she had traded profitably in cattle. One of the reasons for his hesitation, if he was hesitating, was because Ruth Kermitt was so wealthy. He himself had done much to create that wealth and to keep what she had gained. From the time when he had saved her herd in Nevada he had worked untiringly. He knew cattle, horses, and men. He also knew range conditions. The Tumbling K range fattened hundreds of white-faced cattle. The Firebox, farther south and subject to different weather conditions, could provide a cushion against disaster on the northern range. She had bought, on his advice, for a bargain price. Old Tom and young Jimmy had planned to return to a property they owned in Wyoming. As Tom had known Ruth’s father, he offered her a first chance.
On Ward’s advice she had purchased land around water holes, insuring her of water so they would control much more land than they owned.
It was almost daybreak when McQueen rolled into his bunk in the Firebox bunkhouse. Sartain opened an eye and glanced at him curiously. Then he went back to sleep. Kim asked no questions and offered no comments but missed little.
IV
Baldy Jackson was putting breakfast together when McQueen awakened. He sat up on his bunk and called out to Baldy in the next room. “Better get busy and muck this place out,” Ward suggested. “Ruth…Miss Kermitt…may be down before long.”
“Ain’t I got enough to do? Cookin’ for you hungry coyotes, buildin’ fence, an’ mixin’ ’dobe? This place is good enough for a bunch of thistle-chinned cowhands.”
“You heard me,” McQueen said cheerfully. “And while you’re at it, pick out a cabin site for the boss. One with a view. She will want a place of her own.”
“Better set up an’ eat. You missed your supper.”
“Where’s the boys? Aren’t they eating?”
“They et an’ cleared out hours ago.” Baldy glanced at him. “What happened last night? Run into somethin’?”
“Yes, I did.” He splashed water on his face and hands. “I came upon a camp of five men, three of them wounded. They were headed for a place called Dry Leggett.”
“Cañon west of Plaza.”
“Plaza?”
“Kind of settlement, mostly Mexicans. Good people. A few ’dobes, a couple of stores, and a saloon or two.”
“How well do you know this country, Baldy?”
Jackson gave him a wry look. “Pretty well. I punched cows for the SU south of here, and rode into Plaza more times than I can recall. Been over around Socorro. Back in the old days I used to hole up back in the hills from time to time.”
Baldy was a good cowhand and a good cook, but in his younger years he had ridden the outlaw trail until time brought wisdom. Too many of his old pals had wound up at the end of a rope.
“Maybe you can tell me where I was last night. I think I was over around that cañon they used to call the Box.” He described the country and Baldy listened, sipping coffee. “Uhn-huh,” he said finally, “that cañon you hit after crossing the Dillons must have been Devil. You probably found them holed up in the Box or right below it. Leavin’, you must have missed Devil Cañon and wound up on the south fork of the Frisco. Then you come up the trail along the Centerfire and home.”
Racing hoofs interrupted. McQueen put down his cup as Bud Fox came through the door.
“Ward, that he
rd we gathered in Turkey Park is gone! Sartain trailed ’em toward Apache Mountain.”
“Wait’ll I get my horse.” Baldy jerked off his apron.
“You stay here,” McQueen told him. “Get down that Sharps and be ready. Somebody may have done this just to get us away from the cabin. Anyway, I’ve a good idea who is responsible.”
Riding swiftly, Fox led him to the tracks. Kim Sartain had followed after the herd. The trail skirted a deep cañon, following an intermittent stream into the bed of the Apache, and then crossed the creek into the rough country beyond.
Suddenly McQueen drew up, listening. Ahead of them they heard cattle lowing. Kim came down from the rocks.
“Right up ahead. Four of the wildest, roughest-lookin’ hands I’ve seen in years.”
“Let’s go,” McQueen said. Touching spurs to his horse as he plunged through the brush and hit the flat land at a dead run with the other two riders spreading widely behind him. The movements of the cattle killed the sound of their charge until they were almost up to the herd. Then one of the rustlers turned and slapped a hand for his six-shooter. McQueen’s gun leaped to his hand and he chopped it down, firing as it came level. The rush of his horse was too fast for accurate shooting and his bullet clipped the outlaw’s horse across the back of the neck. It dropped in its tracks, spilling its rider. Ward charged into the rustler, knocking him sprawling, almost under the hoofs of the buckskin.
Swinging wide, McQueen saw that Sartain had downed his man, but the other two were converging on Bud Fox. Both swung away when they saw Kim and McQueen closing in. One of them swung a gun on Kim and Kim’s gun roared. The man toppled from the saddle and the last man quickly lifted his hands.
He was a thin, hard-featured man with narrow, cruel eyes. His hair was uncut, his jaws unshaved. His clothing was ragged. There was nothing wrong with his gun; it was new and well-kept.
Now his face, despite its hardness, wore a look of shock. His eyes went from McQueen to Sartain to Fox. “You boys shoot mighty straight but you’ll wish you never seen the day!”
Fox took his rope from the saddletree. “He’s a rustler, Ward, caught in the act, an’ there’s plenty of good trees.”
West of the Tularosa Page 14
