The Fifth Western Novel

by Walter A. Tompkins

  “You must be mistaken, bucko!” Logan said waspishly “I never set a hoof in Montana in my life.”

  Kinevan’s smile faded before the ferocity of Logan’s tone. “All right, all right,” he muttered, staring down at his plate. “So I spoke out of turn.”

  At Kinevan’s elbow, Toke Grossett had frozen in a stock still posture, his eyes shuttling wickedly between this Texan and Cleve Logan, a forkful of hominy suspended halfway to his mouth.

  He was still holding that arrested pose when Cleve Logan suddenly shoved his dishes away from him, unstraddled the bench, and stalked out of the cookhouse.

  “Now what’s the burr under his saddle, you reckon?” Tex Kinevan drawled to nobody in particular. “Pass the spuds.”

  Toke Grossett scraped back his chair and went to the door, watching Cleve Logan head toward the bunkhouse with a long and purposeful stride.

  His eyes aglitter, Grossett spun about, walked over to the table and bent to speak in the ear of the one-legged derelict. “Pegleg, go outside an’ keep an eye on that walloper. Let me know if Logan goes out to the horse corral.”

  As old Pegleg hobbled out to obey Grossett’s orders, the gunman returned to the head of the table and rasped in Kinevan’s ear, “Mind steppin’ outside with me a minute? I want to find out somethin’.”

  Scowling good-naturedly, Kinevan set down his tin coffee cup and followed Grossett outdoors, beyond earshot of the other diners.

  “This huffy feller you called Big Slim—you seen him on the river boat, didn’t you?”

  Kinevan cuffed back his Stetson, scratched his head.

  “Can’t say as I did, Toke.”

  Grossett was breathing heavily. “That was the jigger who dabbed his loop on the steamboat at Riverbend—the one who left the prime claybanker on the dock. Remember?”

  Kinevan grinned. “I heard about that. I was sleepin’ in my hammock at the time.”

  Grossett peered sharply at Kinevan. “You knew this Big Slim before? In Montana?”

  The lanky Texan chuckled. “Sure did. Punched cattle with him for a Hardin syndicate over on the Little Big Horn four-five winters ago, the time of the big die-off.”

  Grossett laid a heavy hand on Kinevan’s shoulder.

  “Any idee what his real name is besides Big Slim?”

  “The syndicate paychecks was made out to the name of Harry Fetterman, as I recollect. We called him Trig for short.”

  Grossett dragged a hand across his mouth to hide the expression forming there.

  “Go back to your chow. And keep this under yore hat. I think I know why Trig Fetterman spooked up when you spoke to him in there.”

  Kinevan waved a hand. “Hell, I know why he lit a shuck, too. Fetterman held up a stage at Bannack last year an’ drew a ten-year sentence at Deer Lodge. I figgered he must of broke jail which is why I didn’t speak to him as Fetterman in front of those fellers.”

  Toke Grossett went straightaway to Jubal Buckring, whom he interrupted in the act of eating his solitary dinner.

  “Jube, I got proof that my hunch was right about Cleve Logan bein’ on the dodge. He had Duke kind of wondering when he denied bein’ Fetterman this mornin’.”

  Buckring grunted. “What’d you expect him to do—admit he was an escaped convict? Of course he’d deny it.”

  Buckring listened with some small show of interest as Grossett recounted his conversation with Tex Kinevan.

  “All right, so you’ve proved your point,” Buckring grumbled. “Why bother me with this? We want Marshal Stagman put out of the way next week. Fetterman’s the man to do it seeing as how Stagman almost got his rope on. Fetterman over at Riverbend.”

  Grossett chewed on his mustache for a moment, his brow furrowing as if he were coming to some kind of decision within himself.

  “Look, Mister Buckring. I got a hunch Fetterman’s of more value to us than to Duke. Wait.”

  Grossett drew the frayed reward poster out of his Rob Roy shirt, spread it out on the table beside Buckring, and ran a black fingernail along the final paragraph of type.

  Officers are advised that Fetterman should, if possible, be captured alive, inasmuch as he has not yet revealed where he cached bullion.

  “Ketch my drift?” Toke Grossett panted. “Trig Fetterman knows the whereabouts of $50,000 in specie.”

  Buckring laid aside his knife and fork and turned to survey Grossett with a growing suspicion.

  “Why cut me in on this, Toke?” the Ringbone boss demanded. “You’re suggesting we force this Cleve Logan to divulge where he stashed that Wells-Fargo loot, ain’t you?”

  Grossett’s cheeks stained crimson. “To tell the truth, I’d like help before I tackled Fetterman. The man’s tough and he’s desperate. Even if I was after that $2,000 reward, it ain’t payable if Fetterman’s dead. This ain’t a mere bushwhack job.”

  Buckring turned back to his meal.

  “We better let this ride till Logan has nailed Stagman’s hide to a fence. When he goes to collect his pay from Duke, we can throw a gun on him then and make him talk turkey about that Wells-Fargo business.”

  Grossett shook his head desperately. “Too risky. Stagman might tally Logan, for all we know. Or Logan might drag his wagon without waitin’ to collect his pay. Besides which, time may be short. Kinevan recognizin’ him threw a scare into Logan. I got Pegleg Cochran shadowin’ him now. Wouldn’t surprise me none if Logan didn’t try to high-tail it out of here today.”

  Jubal Buckring got to his feet slowly, swabbing his mouth with a napkin.

  “Bring Fetterman, Cleve Logan, up to the house,” he said. “Tell him I want to see him about his sleeping-quarters. We’ll brace him in my office.”

  Hurrying to the door, a new angle halted Grossett.

  “How about Duke Perris—we cuttin’ him in on this?”

  Buckring’s oblique glance studied Grossett, knew by the crafty twist of the bodyguard’s lips the true status of Grossett’s loyalty to the speculator.

  “Why should Perris get a cut of that $50,000?” he asked. “I’m paying Duke twice that amount for this other deal. You’re the man who figured out who this Logan was. Let this thing ride as it lays.”

  Uncertainty still lingered on Grossett, as fresh phases of the problem occurred to him.

  “We put the hooks to Fetterman today, that’ll leave us with John Stagman to worry about,” he mused. “The original plan was for a gun slick named Blackie Marengo to take care of the marshal for us. But Marengo got drunk and fell overboard comin’ down the river the other night an’ drowned. Where we goin’ to find a mouse who’ll tie the bell to the cat’s neck?”

  Buckring waved Grossett aside.

  “This Stagman has Duke buffaloed, but I’m not. That star man ain’t bulletproof. You go bring Cleve Logan here, Toke, before he flies the coop. This deal is too good to pass up.”

  * * * *

  Grossett found Cleve Logan at the bunkhouse playing cribbage with the oldster Grossett had detailed to keep an eye on him, Pegleg Cochran.

  Concealing his relief with an effort, Grossett spoke from the open doorway of the soddy.

  “Buckring wants to see you at the big house, Logan. Figgers the responsibilities you got deserve a better bunk than you’ll find in this flea pen.”

  Logan reached for his Stetson and stood up.

  “That’s good news,” he conceded, walking over to the bunk he had selected for himself and picking up his coiled shell belt and holstered Colt. “I never did cotton to bedbugs.”

  Grossett’s eyes held their covert interest as he noted that Logan did not strap on the gun, but looped the shell belt over one arm.

  En route to the main ranch house, Logan saw Perris’s men beginning to file out of the cookhouse. Tex Kinevan was over by the hitchrack, saddling up to leave the Ringbone.

  Grossett pace
d at Logan’s side as they climbed Buckring’s porch steps and entered the living-room. From a door off the big fireplace, the Ringbone boss was in the act of lighting a cigar. His welcoming grin was on Logan as the latter paused, hat in hand, just inside the door.

  “Come into my office, Logan,” the white-haired rancher invited. “You come along, too, Grossett. I’d like to get some idea in advance, if possible, about how you aim to go about disposing of John Stagman without getting yourself involved with our sheriff over in Owlhorn. I may be able to give you a few pointers.”

  Stepping into Buckring’s office, Logan saw that this twelve-foot-square room had no windows, no exit except the door they had entered from the living-room. Toke Grossett closed this behind them.

  The room was austere and businesslike, one wall occupied by the black steel door of a vault, the only furniture being a big mahogany desk and a couple of chairs.

  Seating himself on the edge of the desk, the cattleman offered Logan a Cuban cigar.

  “A bit rich for a pipe-smoker’s blood, thanks.” Logan grinned, shifting the weight of the gun belt on his forearm. “About this marshal. I figger he’ll register at the Pioneer House, that being the only accommodations in Owlhorn. When Perris sends for me, I will—” The pressure of a gun muzzle prodding him in the spine snapped off Logan’s words. He heard the double click of Toke Grossett’s gun hammer and at the same instant the big man’s left arm shot past Logan and yanked the Peacemaker from Logan’s holster.

  “Stand hitched, Fetterman!” Grossett’s warning sounded in Logan’s ear. “You’re hogtied for branding.”

  Jubal Buckring watched this with a spreading grin. Speaking around his thick cigar, the Ringbone cattle king said softly, “You robbed a Bannack City stage of fifty thousand in gold, Fetterman. You went to the penitentiary without divulging where that plunder was hidden, according to the reward poster. You’ll tell us where that specie is, or take a long time dying with Toke’s slug in your guts.”

  Chapter Ten

  Death on Ringbone

  The pressure of the gun muzzle relaxed from Cleve Logan’s back and he heard the scrape of Toke Grossett’s boots withdrawing. The gunman backed over to the door, locked it, and braced his shoulders against the hardwood panels, assuming the watchdog role he had played in Duke Perris’s cabin on the Sacajawea.

  This time things were different. Logan’s gun was thrust through the waistband of Grossett’s pants; Grossett’s big .45 was cocked, and the cramped breadth of this soundproof room made Logan a point-blank target.

  Ignoring the menace at his rear, Logan put his careful attention on the suave countenance of Jubal Buckring.

  This was the man who stood to lose the most when Owlhorn’s land boom got under way. This was the wealthiest cattleman in Washington Territory, the rancher who had some crooked plan rigged up with Duke Perris.

  It struck Logan as a trifle off character, this display of greed in a man to whom a fifty-fifty cut of a $50,000 stage-robbery haul could hardly count for much. Penny-ante stuff compared to the sky-high stakes of the bigger game he was playing.

  “So.” Logan spoke for the first time since Buckring had sprung his trap. “I’m disappointed in you, Buckring. You and Grossett are cut out of the same hunk of leather. Except Grossett eats the carrion of bounty money and you had the savvy to play for the jack pot.”

  Color flushed the cattle baron’s thick neck like mercury rising in a thermometer. Logan’s words had stung this man’s ego, classing him in the unsavory category with bloodsuckers like Toke Grossett.

  “You’ve seen our cards, Fetterman,” Buckring said stiffly. “We’re checking the bet to you.”

  Logan stood there in mid-room, every muscle taut. There was a clock set in the forehead of a bronze steer head on Buckring’s desk, and its ticking was like a hammer pounding nails in a coffin, to Logan’s overwrought perceptions.

  He saw his trapped figure mirrored in the polished door of the safety vault, the glossy metal reflecting the bone-whiteness of his face.

  “Without a deuce in the hole, I can’t sit in the game any longer,” Logan said. “The specie is in the Wells-Fargo box. I cached it under a gypsum boulder in a certain canyon over in Montana, not ten miles from where I held up that stage. That help you any?”

  Buckring considered this information thoughtfully.

  “You made your escape two months ago,” the rancher said. “How come you didn’t pick up your haul?”

  Logan grinned bleakly. “With that Bannack country swarming with posses expecting me to show up in that area? Uh-uh. I was ready to wait a year, five years. Gold don’t rust.”

  The steer-head clock ticked through the long following silence.

  “I could lead Toke Grossett to the spot, of course,” Logan went on. “Providing I have your word that that specie buys me out of this tight.”

  Buckring’s eyes revealed their quick distrust of such a proposition and brought a cynical laugh from Logan.

  “Bed down with a skunk, Buckring, and you get to thinking like a skunk,” Logan jibed. “You know what would happen. Toke would take the specie, put a bullet in me, and light out with your cut. So, where do we go from here?”

  Buckring’s cigar butt glowed to the fierce pull of his lips. The ceiling lamp’s yellow cone of light revealed a waxen sheen on the rancher’s forehead.

  “He can draw us a map, Jube!” Grossett spoke with quick avarice from the doorway behind Logan. “When this Owlhorn deal is finished you an’ me could ride over to Montana together and—”

  The Ringbone boss silenced the big gunman with an oath. Sliding off the desk, he seated himself in a swivel chair and drummed its mahogany arms for a long, pondering interval.

  “I could draw you a map, yes,” Logan said. “I memorized landmarks and compass bearings pretty thorough, knowing that box was too heavy to make a getaway with. I had reason to be thankful for that precaution when John Stagman cornered me at Alder Gulch a week after the holdup.”

  Buckring dragged a palm across his moist temple, concentration narrowing his eyes into slits.

  “A map could not buy your freedom on its face value, Fetterman,” Buckring pointed out cagily. “Grossett and I would have no guarantee as to its accuracy until the specie was actually in our hands.”

  Silence piled up oppressively in this lamplit room. With one edge of his brain, Cleve Logan found himself remarking the complete void of extraneous sound in this room. Its heavy walls shut out all outside noises. By the same token it would muffle the screams of a tortured man to listeners anywhere outside.

  “If I’ve got to buy my pelt, then I’m entitled to make a proposition that will be mutually agreeable,” Logan said. “Want to listen?”

  Buckring looked up, his own thoughts in a hopeless vacuum.

  “If you can think up something that is double-crossproof, I’ll personally guarantee your freedom when the specie is in our possession, Fetterman.”

  Logan edged over toward the vault, turning so that he could keep both Grossett and the rancher in his view. Grossett lounged indolently against the door, his gun muzzle following Logan’s shift of position. Knowing Logan for a dangerous man, Grossett was playing it safe.

  “All right,” Logan said, swinging his gaze to Buckring. “I’ll draw a sketch showing enough landmarks to guide you to where I buried that strongbox. You have a man on the Ringbone payroll you can trust, no doubt. Send him and Grossett over to Montana. When your man wires you that the deal is okay, then I have your oath to turn me loose to drift, Buckring.”

  Buckring’s keen brain turned this proposition over and over, hunting it for loopholes, probing it for any conceivable element of treachery.

  “Meaning,” he said finally, “that you will remain my prisoner here on the Ringbone during the time it takes Toke and my man to make the trip to Montana.”

  Logan nodded, faintl
y amused by the angry twitchings on Grossett’s features. Grossett, trusting no man, showed the full pressure of the distrust that rode him now, putting a wide, reptilian shine in his green eyes.

  “What if I double-crossed you after that telegram came, Fetterman?” Buckring asked candidly.

  Logan’s shoulders lifted and fell. “You hold the aces. What else can I do but make the gamble?”

  The tension smoothed out the deep ruts on Buckring’s face as he considered Logan’s reply. He shot a glance at Toke Grossett, ignored the negative headshake Grossett gave him, and wheeled his chair around to the desk.

  Pulling out a drawer, Buckring got a pad of paper, a bottle of ink, and a penholder. Then he stood up and motioned Logan into the chair.

  “I admire a gambler who shoots square,” Buckring said with an indefinable sly quality entering his voice. “I warn you to make this map wholly accurate, your first try. I will not be disposed to mercy if my man’s telegram is not favorable.”

  Logan exhaled a pent-up breath from his lungs and stepped over to sit down at the desk. Grossett remained at the door, his gun tipping toward the ceiling as he saw Jubal Buckring come between him and his target as the rancher leaned over Logan’s shoulder.

  Logan’s rope-calloused fingers picked up the pen, jabbed it in the ink bottle, and made a series of wriggling lines on the tablet, his hand showing no slightest tremor.

  “Here’s Bannack City,” Logan mumbled, “and this is the Tobacco Root Range and the Beaverhead River. Dotted line for the stage road to Virginia City. There’s the relay station at Blacktail Crick. This canyon where I stashed the box—”

  Buckring’s hot breath was on Logan’s neck as he put the pen scratching over paper. He felt the bulk of the cattleman’s torso crowding the back of the swivel chair as he leaned forward to wet the nib of his pen in the inkwell again.

  Drawing the penholder up and back, Logan suddenly spun the swivel chair violently around, throwing Buckring off balance, half stumbling into Logan’s lap.

  Completing the savage arc of his hand, Logan stabbed the steel penpoint like a dagger into the lobe of Buckring’s nose.