The Fifth Western Novel

by Walter A. Tompkins

  Webster strolled away from the game thinking of these things. And then he told himself that the affairs of Sonia Swanson and Emory Dustin were none of his business. He was here to do a job for Swanson, not to advise Swanson’s daughter in affairs of the heart.

  But he could not rid himself of the problem; he felt somehow responsible, as though he knew that the girl was on the verge of unknowingly about to drink something poisonous.

  CHAPTER V

  Across the River

  Webster got his horse and rode down toward the river and about the country for the next three days, getting the lay of the land and watching the muddy waters gradually subside. On the morning of the fifth day the stream was no more than a hundred yards wide, and the sun was drying out the hard red sand on the two sides of the stream. In another day the water would be down enough for wagons to cross.

  That evening he was drinking at the bar when he found Emory Dustin standing beside him. Young Dustin had a broad, friendly smile and bought him a drink.

  “Hear it around that Ike Flint left town. He hasn’t been seen since that fight you boys put on. It was a dinger, I hear.”

  “Nothing much,” Webster said casually. “Just another drunken brawl. A man my age should keep his opinions to himself. It’s hard on old bones.”

  There was a quick flash of shrewdness in Dustin’s laughing eyes which gave Webster the impression that the man did not accept his story. And apparently he wasn’t satisfied.

  “Well, it landed you a job, anyway. I hear you’re taking Ike’s place.”

  “News does get around, doesn’t it? I’m a stranger here myself. I hadn’t heard it yet.”

  Dustin laughed pleasantly. “Yeah, a town this size is practically all ears. People here can hear your words before you speak ’em.”

  “I believe it.”

  “I wasn’t trying to meddle,” Dustin said. “You know, Ike was quite a bully around here, and you made plenty of friends when you whittled him down to size.”

  “I’ve got an idea he’s still got plenty of fight in him yet.”

  “Yeah. But he’ll choose his victims a little more carefully from now on. You know, I was just thinking. I have business up in the Territory once in a while. I’m a cattle dealer, you know.”

  “Tell me about it,” Webster said, inwardly perking up. “I hear it’s pretty rowdy up there.”

  “Rowdy is a tame word for it,” Dustin said. “I’m not getting ready to tell you how I’ve handled those boys, like Flint did. I’m a gentle soul myself, and if one of those boys tells me to stand up and fork over my money, well, I’d just stand up and fork over my money quicker than hell can scorch a feather. You can always make another dollar; you can’t get your life back.”

  “That,” Webster said gravely, “is a parable.”

  “It is a truth which I imagine Ike Flint knew pretty well. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to make so many trips, up into that country with merchandise and live to tell the tale of what happened to it.”

  “From what Ike was telling the pilgrims, I got the impression that he could drive a herd of hornets from one end of the Territory to the other and never lose a single one.”

  “He lost plenty of merchandise, but never his life. And he might be dumb, but I wonder if that fact doesn’t denote wisdom of a sort.”

  “I believe,” Webster said thoughtfully, “that you’ve got a point there. Have one on me, and then I’ve got to go and see how the rest of the joints are making out. I haven’t left a dollar with any of them tonight.”

  Jim paid for his drink, looked over the house, and went out into the darkness, wondering what was behind Dustin’s talk. It all seemed friendly and idle enough, but there was something hidden behind the casualness of his perpetual grin that didn’t ring true to Webster. A kind of straining for effect, as though he had to consciously keep the smile on his face to mask some deeper emotions.

  Webster went on down the street and stopped off at a couple of other saloons and had a drink or so in each, then went out and enwrapped himself in darkness.

  He made his way to Faulkner’s darkened warehouse, as Faulkner had directed him earlier in the day, and came around the back way, where he found a covered wagon pulled up at the dock. Faulkner and two men were standing on the dock, their shapes made visible only by the faint starlight.

  When Webster joined them, Faulkner said in his husky, flat voice, “Webster, these men will be your passengers. We’re sending only one wagon this trip and, like I told you, it’s already loaded. It’s just merchandise, cotton goods and some hardware. These men have to get up to Buckhorn, and I told them they could ride along with you. They’ve got some business or other up there, though I can’t see why they don’t get horses and saddles and get there quicker. Anyway, take ’em along. This is Mr. Clanton.”

  “Glad to know you, Mr. Clanton,” Webster said, shaking hands.

  “And this is Mr. Nix.”

  “Glad to know you, Mr. Nix. Say, aren’t you the gents I rode in on the stage with the other day?”

  “Guess we are,” Clanton said gruffly. “Rough ride. Ain’t over it yet.”

  “This might be rougher,” Webster said. “I’ve just been talking around, and I learn that the trail over the mountains is rock-ribbed corduroy all the way. You might find that it would have been easier horseback.”

  “We’re not too good on horses, and we don’t know the way. From what we hear, that’s no place for a couple of tenderfoots to be wandering around. We brought a couple of rifles along with us, but tell the truth, I’m not much with a rifle myself. Tried to kill a deer once. He was standing still, but he never knew I shot at him.”

  “I’m not much better,” added Nix. “I’m just hoping we haven’t got any use for guns.”

  “Well,” Webster laughed. “They’ll do to hang over the mantel when you get home. You can tell your grandchildren about your adventures in the wilds of Indian Territory.”

  Faulkner coughed. “Better get on,” he said. “You ought to be through the gap before daylight. It’s safer in the open on the other side of the ridge.”

  It was a four-horse hookup he had to drive, and Webster climbed into the seat and was unwinding the reins off the brake handle when Faulkner, standing in the darkness of the dock, gave him a parting word of advice.

  “Remember, Webster, a man’s life is worth more than a wagon load of calico and plow handles. That’s about all you’ve got in there, and I can’t imagine anybody wanting to take the stuff away from you. But if they do, use your head instead of your gun. I can take the loss of the merchandise, but the life of a good man is something that I can’t replace.”

  There it was again. Faulkner was not the type who thought more of a hired hand’s life than he did of a load of merchandise, at least to Webster’s thinking.

  With this in mind, he pulled the team away from the dock, and set out toward the river crossing with his two passengers beside him, the hard seat cushioned with a partially filled feed sack of oats for the horses.

  Both passengers filled their pipes, and Webster lit a cigarette, and the wagon lumbered on down toward the river without anyone speaking.

  Webster was remembering that Jake had told him that these men had brought a heavy satchel which Jake had handled, and had concluded was gold money. Jake was shrewd, and had probably guessed right.

  But these men did not place the satchel in the wagon, and Faulkner had assured him that there was nothing in it except calico and plow handles.

  If Jake had guessed rightly, the pair had arranged with Faulkner to hide the satchel in one of the pine boxes of cloth, or in one of the flour barrels or other packages or boxes.

  That was something to think of.

  But there was still another and more important thing to think of, and that was that he knew one of these men well—had known him, in fact, for ten or
twelve years. Ben Clanton had been a Texas Ranger then and, so far as Webster knew, Clanton was still a Ranger.

  And further, Clanton knew Jim Webster. He knew of his exploits; he knew that Webster’s name was one that had struck terror into many a nest of thieves; go into any thieves’ hangout and mention that Jim Webster was headed this way, and the habitants would fly like a flock of crows at the sign of a man with a shotgun.

  Clanton must have known, then, that Webster was here on some kind of affair that would likely end in bloodshed; and Webster knew that Clanton was here on business of some kind; mysterious business from what little he had seen so far.

  But Clanton was a Texas officer, and his authority stopped at the near edge of the river. He would have no authority to act as a peace officer up in the Federally ruled Indian Territory.

  This puzzled Webster, but he did not expect an answer soon. He would have to keep on acting the stranger to Clanton until and unless Clanton decided otherwise.

  He had got this cue from Clanton while they were waiting at the stage station in Fort Worth, where they first came together. It had been a meager signal, but it had been enough, and Webster had acted on it.

  It had been this simple: when Webster brought his saddle and his warbag to the stage station at Fort Worth, and had stepped up to the desk to buy a ticket to Woodbine, he stepped into line behind two other men, one of whom was the man Faulkner had introduced as Nix, and the other was Ben Clanton. Webster had been on the verge of speaking to Clanton when the latter looking up saw him—and then looked clear through him, as though peering through a stranger.

  That was all the tip that Webster needed, knowing his friend’s business. From there on out, for the two days they were thrown together during the bone-breaking stage ride, they had acted as complete strangers to each other. And during the long wait at Woodbine for the water to recede, they had never once looked directly at each other, nor spoken a word, though on two occasions they had eaten at the same table in the restaurant.

  In half an hour Webster reached the river and crossed it through a stream in the middle of the wide sandy bed. The channel was barely fifty feet wide and less than hub deep, its bottom hard-packed red sand. He pulled out on the Territory side of the stream and pushed the lumbering wagon up a gradual incline, following a dim trail through tall grass that was not bent over and mud-caked after its inundation by the floodwaters. Following the trail gradually upward, they finally passed over a rise, came through low ground again and passed into a narrow wooded gravel stream that flowed down out of the hills just before them.

  Up until now, Clanton and Nix had spoken only a few casual words about the condition of the river, and the chances of getting bogged down in mud somewhere along the trail.

  Now Clanton spoke again, “Webster, how about pulling up and giving the horses a blow? I want to take a walk.”

  Webster stopped his team and wrapped the reins around the brake handle while he got down to stretch his legs.

  Clanton said, “Let’s take a walk, Nix,” and the two men climbed down over the front wheel and walked up the trail ahead of the wagon. Webster squatted on a boot heel and rolled himself a cigarette, his mind still playing with the idea of trying to gain some knowledge of what Clanton was doing here. For now that he had crossed the river, Clanton was no longer in Texas, and his authority as a Texas Ranger was not valid here.

  In a few minutes the men came back, and instead of getting into the wagon, Clanton squatted on his heel beside Webster. Nix joined them.

  “I guess,” Clanton said, “it’s about time we chewed the rag a little, Webster. Looks like we might be all trying to ride the same horse.”

  “I’m listening,” Webster said.

  “Well, first,” Clanton said, “thanks for not recognizing me after I gave you the sign back in Fort Worth.”

  Webster chuckled. “Maybe I didn’t want to recognize you. I’ve felt your breath on the back of my neck more than once, and it’s a pretty hot breath.”

  “You might stump your toe some day yet,” Clanton answered. “But all I’ve known about you, you don’t have to worry. And I reckon it would kind of put me in a bad spot if I did know all you could tell about yourself.”

  Clanton rolled and licked a cigarette and lit it. “I called Nix up the road to tell him about you. He’s the U.S. Marshal for this part of the Territory, and I’m working on a job with him. I’m acting as his deputy now that we’ve crossed the river, not as a Ranger. But we’ve been on this case together because as far as we can make it, the people we’re after work on both sides of the river, while either one of us would be stopped at the river. This way, with him working as my deputy on the Texas side and me working as his deputy on the Territory side, well, we can get around. I was telling him about you, and he says that since I know you, we can thresh this business out and maybe pool what little we’ve all three got.”

  “Well, what have you got?”

  Clanton laughed. “That’s you, all right. You do the asking; the other fellow gives the answers. What I want to know, is what’s up your sleeve?” Then he added, “Besides a set of pretty sore muscles, if I’m any judge of what you did to that mule skinner.”

  “Why, I’m just working as a mule skinner for Faulkner.”

  “All right, Webster,” Clanton said impatiently. “So I’ll have to tell you something before you’ll tell me anything. Well, I’ll give you all we’ve got, and if you don’t come through with your part of it. I’ll haunt you till I see you hung.”

  “You are supposed to have brought a big payroll or something,” Webster told him. “And you’re not supposed to have it with you now. But you have.”

  “Was I? And have I. Where is it?”

  “In one of those boxes, I reckon. Outlaw bait.”

  “See, Nix? I told you the man was always a jump ahead of anybody. Well, Webster, here it is, what little we’ve got; big wholesalers have been shipping stuff up into the Territory, some of it through Woodbine crossing, some through other crossings. There’s a bunch of law dodgers up in these hills who have been getting fat holding up those trains of merchandise. It’s running into money. Other business men, and even the government, have had cause to ship money up into the Territory, and they’re lucky if it gets through.

  “The Texas merchants have appealed to the Rangers, and that’s my angle. They’ve also appealed to the U.S. Marshal’s office in the Territory, and that is why Nix is in on it. And what got you in on it—as if I didn’t know?”

  “Then you tell me.”

  “Well, you’re hand in glove with the Cattlemen’s Protective Association. You’re not officially their detective, because you’ve got a habit of twisting the law by the tail whenever you’ve got the idea that justice and the law don’t see eye to eye on the disposal of known crooks. I happen to know that your way often saves the state the expense of trials and hangings, and often keeps the law from being cheated by some of the lads who might beat a law case but can’t beat your bullets.

  “Anyhow, if you’re up here,” Clanton continued, “it’s because some cattleman is having trouble. And since you hadn’t been in town but a few minutes when one of the men on the Double H ranch got hold of you and took you to meet Eric Swanson at the home of the widow of the man who used to own Double H, I take it you’re working for Swanson.”

  “And further, since I know that you’re not a man who fights for the love of getting his shirt torn off his back, you deliberately started that fight with Faulkner’s driver in order to take his job away from him. That meant that, like a good bird dog, you already had your nose to the ground and you thought the scent led up this way.

  “Well, since our scents lead in the same direction, maybe we’re on the same trail.”

  “You do get around, don’t you?” Webster answered. “You must not have suffered much from that stage ride if you still had the energy to start trailing me
the minute I got into town.”

  “It’s not a matter of my comfort,” Clanton answered. “It’s part of my business. Where you are, there trouble is. And trouble is my business, too. As I say, maybe we’re on the same scent.”

  “I haven’t got one yet,” Webster admitted truthfully. “I’m just smelling around, looking for one.”

  “I wonder if you’re telling me the truth. But it wouldn’t do me any good to ask you. You know who Faulkner is, of course?”

  “All I know is that he is a trader.”

  “And you know how fishy his eyes are. Anyway, I’m going to tell you this, if you don’t know it anyway. Maybe it’s bread cast on the waters; maybe it will do you some good, and maybe do me some good. Did you know that he was a bank absconder who did time in Huntsville penitentiary?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Webster admitted truthfully. “But now that you mention it, he looks the part.”

  “Well, you’re working for him. Don’t forget that. Now, here’s another thing. Tell him, Nix, about those rumors about that hidden town.”

  “Well,” Nix said after taking a moment to shape his words. “You know how rumors are. We’ve been hearing about some hidden town down here in these hills; you know, a regular outlaw town, where the crooks hide out. Of course, there are always stories like that going on, and you usually discount them. But this thievery down here in this corner of the Territory is getting to be pretty big-time stuff. It takes organization, both to pull the deals they accomplish successfully, and to dispose of their loot. There’s a lot of merchandise, money and cattle that are being swallowed up by these hills. They have got to be hidden somewhere, and there has to be some kind of organization to handle it. The stories and the facts have piled up too heavy to be discounted any longer. We’re looking for that hidden town.”

  “And how are you figuring on finding it?”

  “There are leaks somewhere along the line. People try to get money, merchandise and livestock through secretly, but any big shipment is always spotted and hijacked. We’re taking a shipment of gold through presumably for a Fort Worth bank, to one of its smaller correspondents further up in the open part of the Territory. And we don’t expect to get there with it. We expect to be hijacked, and then we’re going to get on the trail of the men who did it, and find them, and find out where the leak came from. In short, we’re going to break this thing up before we stop.”