The Fifth Western Novel

by Walter A. Tompkins

  “In a way, yes. We’re the only town in this county; we’ve got maybe five hundred permanent residents who support the town, and so we’ve got such a sheriff as a town of that size can afford. This is a crossing town, and there’s a constant stream of people passing through, the trail herders going and coming, freighters, settlers, and riffraff. For one thing, our sheriff has his hands full just trying to keep these transients from killing each other off. But more important is the fact that he can’t even go after the rustlers.”

  “Why not?”

  “Red River is two miles from where you’re sitting. It divides Texas from Indian Territory. If our sheriff starts north he will be out of his bailiwick by the time he has ridden that two miles to the river’s edge. From there on it is none of his business. The Federal Government runs Indian Territory; and it is in Washington, more than a thousand miles away. It sends political appointees down to Fort Smith, Arkansas, over two hundred miles away, and those men are the poor relations of politicians in Washington, men who are so ornery that they’d be satisfied with such jobs. Meaning, they’re worthless or crooked, or both. The only law in Indian Territory is a handful of deputy marshals who are no better than the men that they’re supposed to be fighting. And the Territory—this section of it across the river—is a tangled mass of hills as wild as anything you’ve ever seen in your life. Add that up, no law, and full of hiding places that no honest white man has ever laid eyes on. What’s the answer? The answer is that this corner of Indian Territory across the river from us is an outlaw heaven. Every law dodger in the Southwest heads for that country over there as soon as it gets too hot for him elsewhere. And they band together when they need to. I’d bet you could get enough thieves together on one project to steal a herd of ten thousand cattle guarded by a company of U.S. Cavalry, if they set their minds to it. They’ve got to be stamped out, Webster, before it will again be safe for anybody to ship cattle or goods into or through Indian Territory.”

  Webster laughed dryly. “And that’s the simple job you’ve asked me to do. Well, I don’t carry a U.S. Marshal’s commission, and I haven’t got an army of my own.”

  “Exactly,” Swanson said evenly. “That’s one reason you could possibly make a dent in them. You see, the Federal Government can’t or won’t stop them, and no Texas authority extends up there. There is practically no law there. It’s every man for himself. Now if you were working for me up there, and if you were attacked while protecting my property, you’d be doing what everybody else does in defending yourself and your employer’s property. In the case of responsible people, that would be the end of the matter.”

  “Or the end of me.”

  “That is the chance you’re hiring out to take, of course.”

  “Of course,” Webster agreed. “Well, I don’t know how much I can do for you, but I’ll look around and go to work on it. I might be able to do something, and I might not. I can tell you about that later, after I’ve sized things up.”

  “That’s fair enough,” Swanson said. “As I said, I’ve heard about your work. Now, about the pay. What do you usually get for a job like this?”

  “That again I can’t tell you,” Webster said. “How many cattle have you lost since conditions have become so bad?”

  “Perhaps a thousand head; maybe fifteen hundred.”

  “And how many do you usually send on a drive?”

  “Anywhere from three hundred to six hundred; whatever the sales prospects are, and whatever we’ve got ready and think safe to start out.”

  “In that case,” Webster said, “I’ll have to put the deal this way; if I save you a herd of cattle which you know you would have lost except for me, you will owe me in cash thirty percent of the value of that herd. Whatever future herds my work saves you will be all velvet, of course, and so you can distribute the charge over all the drives you get through safely because of what I’ve done.”

  Those terms gave Swanson pause for a moment. Webster saw him do some mental calculating. “About expenses?” Swanson asked cautiously.

  “None. I’ll take care of that.”

  Webster admired the way the man came to a decision. Swanson said suddenly, “That’s a deal. If you do me any good it will be worth it; if you don’t, it won’t cost me anything. Right?”

  “Right. But one more thing. I want a free hand. Does anybody else know about you sending for me?”

  “Not a soul except us three.”

  “Then I don’t want it to go any further. I will be hanging around town, going about my own business, and I don’t want any of you to recognize me if you bump into me on the street. I’m glad you had this meeting here, Swanson. Will it be all right if I communicate with you through Mrs. Halsell?”

  “Of course, Webster. She owns half the Double H. She has as much interest as I have.”

  “And one more thing,” Webster answered. “You might hear some things about me that you don’t like. I might have to do things that you don’t understand. I want you to be prepared to hear almost anything.”

  Swanson said, “Hum-m” thoughtfully, then said, “All right.”

  “And one other thing. I’d like you to get word to a few ranchers whom you can trust. This is what I’d like you to say, and what I’d like you to be careful not to say. I want you to find out from them if they’ll be on call if you need them for some pretty hot work. In short, you’d better try to pick men who have lost something through this territory bunch, and have no love for them. I’d want men who wouldn’t be afraid to pick up their rifles some night and cross the river and make a raid in places where they had no legal right to be. Do you think you can do that?”

  “I could get a dozen such responsible men,” Swanson assured him. “Maybe more.”

  “Then feel them out; hint that you might call on them suddenly some night. But don’t tell them another thing; don’t tell them about your having sent for me, don’t hint that you’ve got a man working on the case; just don’t talk at all. Is that satisfactory with you?”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “All right, then. I’ll be dropping in on Mrs. Halsell some time. I’ll give her any message I have for you, and you can leave any word with her that you want to get to me. I won’t go near the Double H for the time being at least. Fair enough?”

  Swanson got to his feet and they shook hands on it. Swanson asked him casually, “What do you intend to do first?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” Webster answered as casually. “But since the trouble seems to lie across the river, I suppose I’ll rest up overnight, and then ride over there and look around.”

  Young Hammond laughed. “You won’t be crossing the river for a week, unless your horse is powered with a steamboat engine. The river is up, it’s a mile-wide torrent of raging floodwater. A catfish couldn’t cross it under its own power.”

  “So that’s why there are so many wagons in town.”

  “Yeah. And if it quit raining tonight it would still be a week before wagons could cross into the Territory. And in the meantime, the town just has to pull in its neck and let the riffraff stay drunk and fight and tear up the place.”

  “In that case,” Webster said, “I’ll just spend my time getting acquainted. You say that a herd or a load of goods can’t be started even secretly from here without being waylaid. That would suggest that those bandits have eyes and ears here in town.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Swanson agreed. “But how to find out where the leak is; that’s the job!”

  “Yeah,” Webster answered. “That’s the job. Goodnight, Mrs. Halsell. Goodnight, gents.”

  CHAPTER II

  Trailtown

  Webster was in the entrance hall putting on his slicker when the front door opened suddenly. He glanced up to see a blond girl come rushing in, her dark-plaid mackintosh waterproof coat gleaming with raindrops. She spoke hurriedly as she closed
the door behind her, and apparently before she had seen Webster.

  “Dad, hurry, will you? It has stopped raining for a moment, and Emory has got the buckboard outside. He wants to get us home and get back to town before it starts again.”

  As she was speaking, Webster had got the slicker down over his shoulders, and she saw that it was not her father but a stranger to whom she had spoken. She was abruptly silent, and her cheeks turned pink with embarrassment.

  Webster cursed under his breath; the girl was pretty, but he hadn’t wanted to see anybody right now. He saw Swanson coming out of the living room, followed by Hammond, and waited for them to square matters.

  Swanson showed his impatience momentarily, and it sounded in the tone of his voice. “I wish you’d waited a few minutes,” he said.

  Mrs. Halsell laughed at him and turned to the girl. “You might as well come on in and get acquainted.”

  They were back in the living room, and Swanson was tapping his big white teeth with the stem of his pipe. Suddenly he asked, “Is Emory waiting in the rig?”

  “Yes, but he’ll get impatient if we don’t hurry.”

  “Hell!” Swanson said, and was lost in thought for a moment. The girl gave Webster a brief sweep of a glance and turned her eyes on Mrs. Halsell, recognizing something amiss here.

  Webster took the moment to examine her more closely. She had the Scandinavian cast of features that her father had, only in softer lines. Her eyes were blue and her yellow hair was done up under the hood of her mackintosh. There was a frank and humorous, and yet sincere smile that hovered about her mouth, giving her an expression that Webster described to himself as wholesome. She was particularly unaffected for such a beautiful girl.

  “Look, Dick,” Swanson said in his sudden decisive way. “Go out there and see that Emory doesn’t come bursting in here. Tell him we’ll be out in a minute. But keep him in that buggy.”

  “Right,” Hammond said, and caught up his slicker and went out into the night.

  Then Swanson said, “Sonia, I want you to meet Jim Webster. My daughter, Webster.”

  Webster made his acknowledgment with a crinkle of amusement at the corners of his mouth, brought by the frank air of mystification on the girl’s face as she offered her hand.

  “Listen, Sonia,” her father said. “I’d hoped that you wouldn’t see Webster just yet. I don’t want anybody to know that we even know each other. But now that you’ve seen him, don’t speak to him again if you see him. You don’t know the man; you have never laid eyes on him. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Dad,” she answered gravely. “As clear as river mud. Are you and he going to rob a bank or something?”

  “You never can tell,” her father answered shortly. “And you might get hung along with the rest of us, if you don’t remember what I say.”

  “But why?”

  “That is something that I can’t tell you,” her father answered. “Only this much. He is working for me, but it would cost him his life if some people knew it. He could get a bullet in his back if certain people saw you even look at him on the street. Do you understand that thoroughly?”

  “I’m Medusa with the snaky locks,” she said. “I look at a man and he dies.”

  “You look at this man and he might die; and I don’t want him to die just yet.”

  “Maybe later then,” she smiled, and turned up her nose at her father. “All right, I’ll try to keep my fatal eyes off Mr. Webster until you’re ready for his demise.”

  “I wish you’d try being serious sometimes,” her father said impatiently. “You might like such a new experience. All right now, go on out and get into the buggy. And don’t mention a word of this to anybody; not even Emory.”

  “All right,” the girl answered. “But it is a terrible burden on my young shoulders to be in on such a dark secret and be unable to tell people how thrilling it is.”

  “Get on out of here,” Swanson put on his slicker. He took Mrs. Halsell in his arms and kissed her. “So long,” he said to Webster. Then he went out, closing the door behind him, leaving Webster alone with Mrs. Halsell.

  Jim stood with Mrs. Halsell while they heard the buckboard move away. He put his hand on the door. Then he paused a moment.

  “This fellow Emory,” he said to the woman. “Who is he? Maybe I’d better know.”

  Mrs. Halsell thought the question over a moment, then said, “Emory Dustin. He is a successful young cattle commission man. And he’s in love with Sonia.”

  “And how does she feel about him?”

  “Why—” the woman paused and gave him a sharp look, then decided to answer. “He is very substantial, and very ambitious, and very good-looking. I rather think she could do worse.”

  “Thanks. I wasn’t meddling. I’ll probably be wanting to know something about everybody around here before I’m through.”

  She smiled at him and showed him out. “Remember,” she said. “We want to know everything you learn. Just come here after dark whenever you have something to tell us.”

  Webster promised, looking at her speculatively. She must have read his thoughts, or have seen the curiosity which he thought he was keeping hidden.

  “I think I’d better tell you something else,” Mrs. Halsell said. “Mr. Swanson and I are partners in the ranch. My husband died a little over two years ago, and I sold Mr. Swanson a half interest in the place because I could not manage it myself. He is a widower and I am a widow, and we are partners. We are going to be married this fall. It was because Sonia and I both need him so much that I persuaded him to get somebody to do the job we’ve asked you to do. He has been a rancher in Texas for a long time, and he is not afraid to fight his own battles. He has six bullet wounds in him now, and that is enough for a man of his age. I don’t want him to keep on living the hard life he has had to lead for so long. That is why you have the job of taking the risk.”

  “You think quite a bit of him, I take it.”

  “He and Sonia and Dick are all I have in the world, and we need him. He is a fine man.”

  “I’m sure he is, and a lucky man. Well, I’ll get in touch with you.”

  It had quit raining for a while, and Webster tramped through the mud and on the boardwalks until he came back into the business part of town. There were a few men moving from one lighted front saloon to another. He walked slowly along, sorting the things that he had heard, putting them in order in his mind, and speculating on his first move.

  And he knew that he did not as yet have a move to make. Back in the house his first thought had been to get a horse and ride over into the Territory and hang around there for a while, milling through the mountains and settlements and seeing what information he could pick up. But the high water had canceled out that idea for the present.

  And as he thought of the facts he had been given, it became clearer to him that the clue to the trouble must lie in this town. Somebody here was in touch with the bandits who preyed on the herds and freighters, otherwise there would not be such consistent losses. It did not stand to reason that every herd, every load of freight, that started across the river and lost itself in the vastness of the Territory’s low mountains should by sheer bad luck run into a bunch of bandits and be captured.

  This was as good a place to start as any. He had no idea of how he would begin, but, he thought, that was usually the case with him. He was no systematic detective, no enforcement arm of the law, with its rulebooks and codes. He was a man who simply had to find out who was doing what, and try to make them stop.

  Simply had to find out and make them stop. He had to laugh wryly at himself.

  Jim drifted behind three roughly dressed men until they turned into the swing doors of a saloon with two smoking kerosene flares over the entrance, pushed his way in behind them, and found himself in a crowded barroom.

  He felt a small touch of surprise at coming in off an a
lmost deserted street on a stormy night and suddenly finding himself in the middle of a noisy crowd in a brightly lighted saloon.

  He stood still a moment, noting the long pine bar at the left, jammed with men showing the mark of teamsters and trailherders on them. To the right, along the walls, were a series of drinking tables, and in the broad middle space there were big round tables with card games going on at all of them. The Red River Bar was a busy place.

  Webster sauntered over to a stud game, watched it a while, noted the rough men playing, and passed it up, wandering over to a blackjack game. He was looking, not for any one man, but for something that would tell him what he should be looking for. He didn’t know. He would just have to look until something told him that he was seeing what he ought to see.

  He came at last to the far end of the bar, near the rear of the building. It was darker down here, and not so crowded, and he went around to the end of the bar where there was only one man standing, and crooked his finger to the bartender for a drink.

  Then the man beside him said, “Got the kinks out of your legs yet?”

  He looked around and saw old Jake, the stage driver, spoke to him and had the bartender fill the man’s glass.

  “Was a kind of rough ride,” he admitted. “My breeches fit a saddle better than a stage seat.”

  “Tell that by lookin’ at you,” the old man grinned. “Not to mention that you had your saddle along with you.”

  “You’ve got a keen eye,” Webster said pleasantly. “You ought to see a lot.”

  Old Jake was slightly more than five feet of browned skin and bones, tough as a sawlog, and wore a pair of tobacco-stained mustaches big enough for a man twice his size. He had one blue eye that was always watery, and his nose seemed always to need wiping on the sleeve of his hickory shirt.

  “I only got one eye, but I see plenty,” he said. He was more than slightly drunk, and seemed to be in a lonely mood. Queer creatures, these old stage drivers. Doing hard, dangerous work for little pay, tough as nails, giving no sympathy and wanting none, they were a breed that always fascinated Webster. He felt disgusted with them and sorry for them at the same time. But he loved to hear them talk. They were built for arguing.