Tack downed two of them in the subsequent battle, and then shot it out with the other in a day-long rifle battle that covered a cedar and boulder strewn hillside. Finally, just before sundown, they met in hand-to-hand combat with bowie knives.
Tack remained long enough to see his old friend Major Powell with whom he had participated in the Wagon Box Fight, and then had wandered back to Kansas. On the Platte he joined a bunch of buffalo hunters, stayed with them a couple of months, and then trailed back to Dodge.
Sunbonnet’s Longhorn Saloon was ablaze with lights when he drifted into town that night. He stopped at the livery stable and put up his horse. He had taken a roundabout route, scouting the country, so he decided that Hardin and Olney were probably already in town. By now they would know of his call at the ranch, and his meeting with Anson Childe.
He was laboring under no delusions about his future. Van Hardin would not hesitate to see him put out of the way if he attempted to regain his property. Hardin had brains, and Olney was no fool. There were things Gentry must know before anything could be done, and the one man in town who could and would know was Childe.
Leaving the livery stable he started up the street. Turning, he glanced back to see the livery man standing in the stable door. He dropped his hand quickly, but Gentry believed he had signaled someone across the street. Yet there was no one in sight, and the row of buildings seemed blank and empty.
Only three buildings were lighted. The Longhorn, a smaller, cheaper saloon, and the old general store. There was a light upstairs over the small saloon, and several lights in the annex to the Longhorn which passed as a hotel, the only one in Sunbonnet.
Tack walked along the street, his boot heels sounding loud in the still night air. Ahead of him was a space between the buildings, and when he drew abreast of it he did a quick sidestep off the street, flattening against the building.
He heard footsteps, hesitation, and then lightly running steps and suddenly a man dove around the corner, grated to a stop on the gravel, staring down the alleyway between the buildings. He did not see Tack, who was flattened in the dense shadow against the building and behind a rain barrel.
The man started forward suddenly, and Tack reached out and grabbed his ankle. Caught in midstride, the fellow plunged over on his head, then lay still. For an instant, Gentry hesitated, then struck and shielded a match with his left hand. It was the brown hatted man he had talked to on the porch of London’s ranch. His head had hit a stone, and he was out cold.
Swiftly, Tack shucked the fellow’s gun and emptied the shells from it, then pushed it back in his holster. A folded paper had fallen from the unconscious man’s pocket, and Tack picked it up. Then moving fast, he went down the alley until he was in back of the small saloon. By the light from a back window, he read the note.
“This,” he muttered, “may help!”
Come to town quick. Trouble’s brewing. We can’t have anything happen now. V H.
Van Hardin. They didn’t want trouble now. Why, now? Folding the note, he slipped it into his pocket and flattened against the side of the saloon, studied the interior. Only two men sat in the dim interior. Two men who played cards at a small table. The bartender leaned on the bar and read a newspaper. When the man turned his head, Tack recognized him.
“Red” Furness had worked for his father. He had soldiered with him. He might still be friendly. Tack lifted his knuckles and tapped lightly on the window.
At the second tap, Red looked up. Tack lighted a match and moved it past the window. Neither of the card players seemed to have noticed. Red straightened, folded his paper, then picking up a cup walked back toward the window. When he got there, he dipped the cup into the water bucket with one hand, and with the other, lifted the window a few inches.
“This is Tack Gentry. Where does Childe hang out?”
Red’s whisper was low. “Got him an office and sleepin’ room upstairs. There’s a back stairway. Yuh watch yoreself.”
Tack stepped away from his window and made his way to the stairway he had already glimpsed. It might be a trap, but he believed Red was loyal. Also, he was not sure the word was out to kill him. They probably merely wanted him out of the way, and hoped he could be warned to move on. The position of the Hardin group seemed secure enough.
Reaching the top of the stairs he walked along the narrow catwalk to the door. He tapped softly. After an instant, there was a voice. “What do you want?”
“This is Tack Gentry. Yuh talked to me in the saloon!” The door opened to darkness, and he stepped in. When it closed, he felt a pistol barrel against his spine.
“Hold still!” Childe warned.
Behind him a match struck, then a candle was lighted. The light still glowed in the other room, seen only by the crack under the door. Childe grinned at him. “Got to be careful,” he said. “They have tried twice to drygulch me!
“I put flowers on their graves every Monday!” he smiled. “And keep an extra one dug. Ever since I had that new grave dug, I’ve been left alone. Somehow it seems to have a very sobering influence on the local roughs.”
He sat down. “I tire quicker than I once did. So you’re Gentry! Betty London told me about you. She thought you were dead. There was a rumor that you’d been killed by the Indians in Wyoming.”
“No, I came out all right. What I want to know, rememberin’ yuh said yuh were a lawyer, is what kind of a claim they have on my ranch?”
“A good one, unfortunately. While you and your uncle were gone, and most of the other men in the locality, several of these men came in and began to brand cattle. After branding a good many, they left. They returned and began working around, about the time you left, and then they ordered your uncle off.
“He wouldn’t go, and they took the case to court. There were no lawyers then, and your uncle tried to handle it himself. The judge was their man, and suddenly half a dozen witnesses appeared and were sworn in. They testified that the land had been taken and held by Soderman, Olney and Hardin.
“They claimed their brands on the cattle asserted their claim to the land, to the home ranches of both London and Gentry. The free range was something else, but with the two big ranches in their hands, and the bulk of the free range lying beyond their holdings, they were in a position to freeze out the smaller ranchers. They established a squatter’s right to each of the big ranches.”
“Can they do that?” Tack demanded. “It doesn’t seem fair!”
“The usual thing is to allow no claim unless they have occupied the land for twenty years without hindrance, but with a carpetbag court, they go about as they please. Judge Weaver is completely in Van Hardin’s hands, and your Uncle John was on the losing side of this war.”
“How did Uncle John get killed?” Tack asked.
Childe shrugged. “They said he called Soderman a liar and Soderman went for his gun. Your uncle had a gun on him when they found him. It was probably a cold-blooded killing because Gentry planned on a trip to Austin and was going to appeal the case.”
“Have yuh seen Bill London lately?”
“Only once since the accident.”
“Accident?”
“Yes, London was headed for home, dozing along in the buckboard as he always did, when his team ran away with him. The buckboard overturned and London’s back was injured. He can’t ride any more, and can’t sit up very long at a time.”
“Was it really an accident?” Tack wanted to know.
Childe shrugged. “I doubt it. We couldn’t prove a thing. One of the horses had a bad cut on the hip. It looked as if someone with a steel tipped bull whip had hit the animal from beside the road.”
“Thorough,” Tack said. “They don’t miss a beat.”
Childe nodded. Leaning back in his chair he put his feet on the desk. He studied Tack Gentry thoughtfully. “You know, you’ll be next. They won’t stand for you messing around. I think you already have them worried.”
Tack explained about the man following him, then handed
the note to Childe. The lawyer’s eyes narrowed. “Hmm, sounds like they had some reason to soft pedal the whole thing for awhile. Maybe it’s an idea for us. Maybe somebody is coming down here to look around, or maybe somebody has grown suspicious.”
Tack looked at Childe thoughtfully. “What’s your position in all this?”
The tall man shrugged, then laughed lightly. “I’ve no stake at all, Gentry. I didn’t know London or your Uncle John, either. But I heard rumors, and I didn’t like the attitude of the local bosses, Hardin and Olney. I’m just a burr under the saddle with which they ride this community, no more. It amuses me to needle them, and they are afraid of me.”
“Got any clients?”
“Clients?” Anson Childe chuckled. “Not a one! Not likely to have any, either! In a country so throttled by one man as this is, there isn’t any litigation. Nobody can win against him, and they are too busy hating Hardin to want to have trouble with each other.” “Well, then,” Tack said, “yuh’ve got a client now. Go down to Austin, demand an investigation. Lay the facts on the table for them. Maybe yuh can’t do any good, but at least yuh can stir up a lot of trouble. The main thing will be to get people talking. They evidently want quiet, so we’ll give them noise.
“Find out all you can. Get some detectives started on Hardin’s trail. Find out who they are, who they were, and where they came from.”
Childe sat up. “I’d like it,” he said ruefully, “but I don’t have that kind of money.” He gestured at the room. “I’m behind on my rent here. Red owns the building, so he lets me stay.”
Tack grinned and unbuttoned his shirt, drawing out a money belt. “I sold some cattle up north.” He counted out one thousand dollars. “Take that. Spend all or any part of it, but create a smell down there. Tell everybody about the situation here.”
Childe got up, his face flushed with enthusiasm. “Man! Nothing could please me more! I’ll make it hot for them! I’ll—” He went into a fit of coughing, and Tack watched him gravely.
Finally Childe straightened. “You’re putting your trust in a sick man, Gentry!”
“I’m putting my trust in a fighter,” Tack said drily. “Yuh’ll do!” He hesitated briefly. “Also, check the title on this land.” They shook hands silently, and Tack went to the door. Softly, he opened it and stepped out into the cool night. Well, for better or worse the battle was opened. Now for the next step. He came down off the wooden stair, then walked to the street. There was no one in sight. Tack Gentry crossed the street and pushed through the swinging doors of the Longhorn.
The saloon and dance hall was crowded. A few were familiar faces, but they were sullen faces, lined and hard. The faces of bitter men, defeated, but not whipped. The others were new faces, the hard, tough faces of gun hands, the weather beaten punchers who had come in to take the new jobs. He pushed his way to the bar.
There were three bartenders now, and it wasn’t until he ordered that the squat, fat man glanced down the bar and saw him. His jaw hardened and he spoke to the bartender who was getting a bottle to pour Gentry’s rye.
The bartender, a lean, sallow faced man, strolled back to him. “We’re not servin’ you,” he said, “I got my orders!”
Tack reached across the bar, his hand shooting out so fast the bartender had no chance to withdraw. Catching the man by his stiff collar, two fingers inside the collar and their knuckles jammed hard into the man’s Adam’s apple, he jerked him to the bar. “Pour!” he said.
The man tried to speak, but Tack gripped harder and shoved back on the knuckles. Weakly, desperately, his face turning blue, the man poured. He slopped out twice what he got in the glass, but he poured. Then Tack shoved hard and the man brought up violently against the backbar.
Tack lifted his glass with his left hand, his eyes sweeping the crowd, all of whom had drawn back slightly. “To honest ranchers!” he said loudly and clearly and downed his drink.
A big, hard-faced man shoved through the crowd. “Maybe yuh’re meaning some of us ain’t honest?” he suggested.
“That’s right!” Tack Gentry let his voice ring out in the room, and he heard the rattle of chips cease, and the shuffling of feet died away. The crowd was listening. “That’s exactly right! There were honest men here, but they were murdered or crippled. My Uncle John Gentry was murdered. They tried to make it look like a fair and square killin’, they stuck a gun in his hand!”
“That’s right!” A man broke in. “He had a gun! I seen it!” Tack’s eyes shifted. “What hand was it in?”
“His right hand!” the man stated positively, belligerently. “I seen it!”
“Thank you, pardner!” Tack said politely. “The gun was in John Gentry’s right hand—and John Gentry’s right hand had been paralyzed ever since Shiloh!”
“Huh!” The man who had seen the gun stepped back, his face whitening a little.
Somebody back in the crowd shouted out, “That’s right! You’re durn tootin’ that’s right! Never could use a rope, ’count of it!”
Tack looked around at the crowd and his eyes halted on the big man. He was going to break the power of Hardin, Olney and Soderman, and he was going to start right here.
“There’s goin’ to be an investigation,” he said loudly, “and it’ll begin down in Austin. Any of you fellers bought property from Hardin or Olney better get your money back.”
“Yuh’re talkin’ a lot!” The big man thrust toward him, his wide, heavy shoulders looking broad enough for two men. “Yuh said some of us were thieves!”
“Thieves and murderers,” Tack added. “If yuh’re one of the worms that crawl in Hardin’s tracks, that goes for you!”
The big man lunged. “Get him, Starr!” somebody shouted loudly.
CHAPTER THREE: Flood to Freedom
Tack Gentry suddenly felt a fierce surge of pure animal joy. He stepped back and then stepped in suddenly, and his right hand swung low and hard. It caught Starr as he was coming in, and caught him in the pit of the stomach. He grunted and stopped dead in his tracks, but Tack set himself and swung wickedly with both hands. His left smashed into Starr’s mouth, his right split a cut over his cheekbone. Starr staggered and fell back into the crowd. He came out of the crowd, shook his head and charged like a bull.
Tack weaved inside of the swinging fists and impaled the bigger man on a straight, hard left hand, then he crossed a wicked right to the cut cheek and gore cascaded down the man’s face. Tack stepped in, smashing both hands to the man’s body, then as Starr jabbed a thumb at his eye, Tack jerked his head aside and butted Starr in the face.
His nose broken, his cheek laid open to the bone, Starr staggered back, and Tack Gentry walked in, swinging with both hands. This was the beginning. This man worked for Hardin and he was going to be an example. When he left this room Starr’s face was going to be a sample of the crashing of Van Hardin’s power. With left and right he cut and slashed at the big man’s face, and Starr, overwhelmed by the attack, helpless after that first wicked body blow, crumpled under those smashing fists. He hit the floor suddenly and lay there, moaning softly.
A man shoved through the crowd, then stopped. It was Van Hardin. He looked down at the man on the floor, then his eyes dark with hate, lifted to meet Tack Gentry’s eyes.
“Lookin’ for trouble, are yuh?” he said.
“Only catchin’ up with some that started while I was gone, Van!” Tack said. He felt good. He was on the balls of his feet and ready. He had liked the jarring of blows, liked the feeling of combat. He was ready. “Yuh should have made sure I was dead, Hardin, before yuh tried to steal property from a kindly old man!”
“Nothing was stolen,” Van Hardin said evenly, calmly. “We took only what was ours, and in a strictly legal manner.”
“There will be an investigation,” Gentry replied bluntly, “from Austin. Then we’ll thrash the whole thing out.”
Hardin’s eyes sharpened and he was suddenly wary. “An investigation? What makes you think so?”
Tac
k was aware that Hardin was worried. “Because I’m startin’ it. I’m askin’ for it, and I’ll get it. There was a lot you didn’t know about that land yuh stole, Hardin. Yuh were like most crooks. Yuh could only see yore side of the question and it looked very simple and easy, but there’s always the thing yuh overlook, and you overlooked something”
The doors swung wide and Olney pushed into the room. He stopped, glancing from Hardin to Gentry. “What goes on here?” he demanded.
“Gentry is accusin’ us of bein’ thieves,” Hardin said carelessly. Olney turned and faced Tack. “He’s in no position to accuse anybody of anything!” he said. “I’m arrestin’ him for murder!” There was a stir in the room, and Tack Gentry felt the sudden sickness of fear. “Murder? Are yuh crazy?” he demanded.
“I’m not, but you may be,” the sheriff said. “I’ve just come from the office of Anson Childe. He’s been murdered. Yuh were his last visitor. Yuh were observed sneaking into his place by the back stairs. I’m arresting yuh for murder.”
The room was suddenly still, and Tack Gentry felt the rise of hostility toward him. Many men had admired the courage of Anson Childe, many men had been helped by him. Frightened themselves, they had enjoyed his flouting of Hardin and Olney. Now he was dead, murdered.
“Childe was my friend!” Tack protested. “He was goin’ to Austin for me!”
Hardin laughed sarcastically. “Yuh mean he knew yuh had no case and refused to go, and in a fit of rage, yuh killed him. Yuh shot him.”
“Yuh’ll have to come with me,” Olney said grimly. “Yuh’ll get a fair trial.”
Silently, Tack looked at him. Swiftly, thoughts raced through his mind. There was no chance for escape. The crowd was too thick, he had no idea if there was a horse out front, although there no doubt was, and his own horse was in the livery stable. Olney relieved him of his gun belt and they started toward the door. Starr, leaning against the door post, his face raw as chewed beef, glared at him evilly.
Desert Death-Song Page 2
