The Fifth Western Novel

by Walter A. Tompkins

  “You trespassed. You cut my fence. Sign over your herd to me and put yourself in my hands so I can turn you over to the sheriff. Do that and I’ll let Alford go.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Clay,” Joe Alford said, but sweat was running down his face in rivulets.

  Elkhart turned his head slightly and told him to shut up. “Janner, if you try any of your tricks—and you’ve got a lot of them I admit—I’ll give Lew a signal.” He indicated the slight, tense, bowlegged man who stood beside the buckskin. “Lew will slap that horse out from under your friend. Alford won’t stand a chance. There’s enough slack in that rope to snap his neck.”

  Clay looked at Alford. The sign of doom was on him. Elkhart laughed quietly. “See what I mean by doing this my way? You’re beginning to sweat too, Janner.” And Clay knew he was right. His armpits were wet and moisture had gathered on his forehead and a drop of it stung his eye. He licked his dry lips and gauged the distance to that slender strand of hemp leading from Alford’s neck to the cottonwood limb. The rope was new, yellow and unstained. He could see it clearly, but it was such a small target. The rifle felt slick in his hands. Elkhart was enjoying this.

  “Drop your gun, Janner.” Elkhart turned and pointed to Sam Lennox, who had ridden to a hogback directly south of the camp and sat his saddle, unmoving. “Tell your rider to drop his gun. Then you come down here—with your hands up. Write an order to your men to turn the herd over to me. Then I’ll see that Alford stays alive.” Clay pretended to deliberate, but from a corner of his eye he made his calculations. With a sort of frozen desperation he gauged the wind and the drop from his own higher elevation down to Alford.

  Elkhart said, “I want to see just how deep this friendship is. Are you going to save Alford? Or are you going to ride out. I’ll let you go if you want.”

  Clay showed his teeth. “You’re a liar. If I play your game you’ll hang me along with Alford.”

  Elkhart shook his head. “You’ll be turned over to the sheriff. This much I promise. I give my word.”

  “Your word!” Clay mocked him arrogantly, but his heart was thundering.

  “Better make up your mind. The buckskin is getting restless.”

  Clay seemed to sag. “All right,” he said, and swung down, still holding his rifle.

  “Smart,” Elkhart said. “You’ve got no choice unless you want to see Alford hang. And if you figure to put a bullet in me, it’ll be the same as putting one in Alford. Either way he’ll be dead.”

  Clay licked his lips again. The bowlegged man called Lew had removed his hat and stood ready to slap the buckskin from under Alford if Elkhart gave the signal. He strained his ears, listening for sounds of Elkhart’s riders, answering the summons of their employer.

  “Drop that rifle,” Elkhart said again. “Quick.”

  Clay made as if to fling it into the brush. Then he pivoted, flung up the weapon and sighted. He heard Elkhart’s shout. The bowlegged rider slapped the buckskin with his hat. With a snort the animal bolted away from the tree just as Clay fired. He saw the slender rope jerk and fray as if cut part way through with a knife. Alford swayed in the saddle, trying desperately to keep his balance. The rope whipped tight, almost yanking Alford out of the saddle. And then it parted with an audible twang.

  Clay wheeled to line the rifle on Elkhart. He heard a burst of firing and something slammed into him. The blow knocked him to the ground. As he lay there, dazed, he saw Lew take a few staggering steps and collapse. There was more firing, a roar of hoofbeats, then silence.

  After his head cleared, Clay got to his feet. He saw Sam Lennox wheel his horse and come spurring back. “I winged that fella with Elkhart. Guess Elkhart figured the game was too rough.” Lennox grinned hugely through his beard.

  “Go after Alford!” Clay shouted, and Lennox spurred away again.

  Clay looked down. His left sleeve was stained. He managed to clench his fingers, so he knew that no tendons had been cut. It was just a flesh wound, but the heavy caliber slug had struck him at such an angle that it knocked him off his feet.

  From the distance came the crash of a rifle and Clay got a glimpse of Elkhart on a knoll some hundred yards away. Before Clay reached his horse, Elkhart spurred out of sight. Clay wondered who Elkhart was shooting at. The bullet had not been aimed at him. He rode past the bowlegged Lew, who was writhing on the ground from a thigh wound, and pushed on. He rode into a brushy draw and there he saw Alford’s buckskin with Alford aboard, his hands still tied. A short distance away Sam Lennox lay face down in the dirt.

  “Elkhart got him just as he was comin’ to cut me loose,” Alford said.

  Clay dismounted and kneeled beside Lennox and his stomach churned. There was nothing he could do for Sam Lennox now. He couldn’t even bury him decently.

  “Let’s go after Elkhart!” Alford shouted. “The sonofabitch oughta be shot for this!”

  Clay managed to get back into the saddle. He rode close and thumbed his clasp knife open and cut Alford’s bonds.

  “No time to go after Elkhart,” Clay said. “Sam’s done for but there’s Kate and Nina. We’ve got to get them out of Elkhart’s reach.”

  “Yeah,” Alford said dully. “If Elkhart’s crew gets here we’re all done for.”

  They lined their horses north. “You shouldn’t have risked your neck comin’ after me,” Joe Alford said.

  Clay gave him a faint grin. He said, “You’re my partner, Joe,” and suddenly he knew that somewhere in this world a man had to put down his roots. All his neighbors couldn’t be strong and bravely confident of coping with any crisis. There had to be some who were just likable, some whom you’d have to help once in a while. Men like Joe Alford. The world wasn’t perfect, and Clay knew that had been his failing. Hunting for perfection in land and in women. Free grass in Montana where there might be worse obstacles than barbed wire. And Kate… She had spirit and might be hard to handle. But where could a man do better?

  Sam Lennox had given his life to help the man who had pulled him out from under a raging stampede. Sam would want him to make his sacrifice count, right here where the trail ended naturally for Clay Janner, whether he lived or died.

  After they had gone several miles, Joe Alford said glumly, “It was the whisky that made me brave enough to cut Elkhart’s fence.”

  “And he was waiting for you,” Clay said. “You’re lucky he didn’t hang you right off.”

  “Nina bein’ with me was the only thing that stopped him. He figured it would be funny to send her after you. Poetic justice, he called it.”

  Sometime later they heard a roar of hoofs. They hid in the junipers and saw a group of riders spurring in the direction of the fence. Elkhart’s men. They started out again. Clay felt light in the head. His arm throbbed.

  Alford said, “Reckon it was me that let Elkhart know you’d cut his fence. I bragged that if anybody got through it’d be you. I figured you and Kate would be across his range by this time.”

  Clay shifted his left arm to ease it. “Trailing a herd at night is slow,” he said, and Alford noticed his bloodied shirtsleeve for the first time.

  “Clay, you been hit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We better stop and bandage—”

  “We better get out of here,” Clay corrected. “It won’t take Elkhart long to round up his men. When he does they’ll be after us.”

  * * * *

  Finally they caught up with the herd. The cattle were being pushed hard. Clay passed on the details of the fight while Kate bandaged his wound. When she finished she kissed him lightly on the lips, and then they rode after the herd. On the move, Clay told his men about Sam Lennox.

  “You boys will get the bonus I promised Sam,” he said.

  Near nightfall Kate announced that they were now off Elkhart’s range. They slowed their pace and watered the herd at a half-dry stream. Then they push
ed on. Clay scouted their back-trail, expecting to see Elkhart’s men riding to cut them off from Las Rosas. He was surprised when it didn’t happen. His arm pained and he felt a little sick from losing so much blood.

  When at last they camped, Joe Alford sat by the fire, one arm about Nina’s waist. “I’m stayin’ put from now on, Clay. If you was to come up with the best gun-running deal in the world, I’d turn you down.”

  “Don’t worry,” Clay said with a faint smile. “It’d take more than guns to get me away from here.”

  “Sometimes I think I’ve had troubles,” Nina said quietly. “But what if I’d married a man like Byrd Elkhart.”

  “I guess none of us knew what he really was,” Kate said, and glanced tensely off into the darkness. “Why hasn’t he hit us? What is he waiting for?”

  “He’s got an ace up his sleeve, you can be sure of that,” Clay said grimly. “At least we won’t have to worry about Elkhart’s bought-and-paid-for sheriff in Las Rosas.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Clay,” Kate said with a catch in her voice. “This is a big county. Las Rosas is the northern boundary.”

  Clay groaned silently. So far they had been lucky. But how long could it last?

  CHAPTER 20

  Several days later, Clay got his first glimpse of Las Rosas. It was a comparatively new town; false-fronted buildings of rough, unpainted lumber lined both sides of the main street. Beyond some warehouses lay the shining tracks of the railroad. At the west end of town were a dozen or more big cattle pens. They drove the herd to one of the empty pens. Just as Clay shut the gate he saw a familiar figure riding toward them: Sheriff Bert Lynden, long legs hugging the barrel of a paint horse.

  Lynden swung down, his every gesture indicating an intense dislike for Clay Janner. “This here’s a court order,” Lynden said, handing Clay a legal-looking document. “You don’t sell that herd till you satisfy a judgment for damages.”

  Clay shoved the paper in his pocket. “So Elkhart’s in town,” he said.

  “Not yet, but I expect him any time. He sent a rider to tell his lawyer to start this action. And you better mind that court order or you’ll find yourself in jail.” He nodded at Kate. “That includes your cows too, Miss French. You both cut Elkhart’s barb wire and trespassed on his land and tromped his waterholes and—”

  “Get out of here,” Clay said, “before I lose my temper.”

  The sheriff glared at him, but then he rode back toward the center of town.

  “Now what do, we do?” Kate asked dispiritedly.

  “We hire a lawyer,” Clay said. “He wants a court fight. He’s going to get it.” He caught her by the arms. “Kate, this is our chance, and Elkhart’s given it to us. We’ll bring his fence out into the open. No judge can do anything but rule in our favor. Elkhart will be forced to tear it down.”

  “But—”

  “It’s illegal, Kate. Elkhart knows it as well as anybody else. He’s good and mad on account of Nina. And he’s trying to bluff. But sometimes when a man lets his temper get the best of him he does some foolish things. This is one of them.” He slapped at the pocket holding the court order.

  He told Kate to take Nina and go uptown and shop. Then he suggested that Alford stay with the herd, and he turned Bailey and his wounded companion loose.

  Uptown Clay found Ed Ruskin in the bar of the Frontier House. The cattle buyer was in a sour mood, having learned of the restraining order.

  “I can use that beef right now, Janner,” Ruskin said dolefully. “The cars are ordered. But we can’t move as long as Elkhart’s got the sheriff on his side.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Clay said. He had a glass in hand that Ruskin had filled from his bottle. The barroom was crowded. With the coming of the railroad Las Rosas was booming.

  As Clay lifted his glass he glanced through the dirty saloon window and saw Byrd Elkhart and Lon Perry on the opposite side of the street. The tall, heavy-set rancher was talking to his yellow-haired foreman. After a minute or so Perry nodded and disappeared in the crowd. Elkhart came toward the saloon.

  Ruskin was saying, “If Elkhart keeps up these tactics I’ll be out of business around here.”

  “Here he comes now,” Clay said. “Maybe I can show him the error of his ways. It would be the mistake of his life to try and take us to court.”

  Elkhart entered the saloon, then stopped when he saw Clay. “You ready to settle up for the damage you did my property?” he demanded.

  There was an instant silence in the room.

  Clay walked slowly toward the man, halting a few feet away. “That fence of yours will never stand up in court, Elkhart.”

  “I’ve got enough money to see this case drag on for a year or more. By that time you’ll be broke.”

  Clay jerked a thumb at Ruskin. “This cattle buyer has a stake in this country, along with a lot of other people. If you try and force that judgment on me, Ruskin might go to the Territorial governor—”

  “I don’t scare worth a damn,” Elkhart muttered, but he gave Ruskin a wary glance.

  “And I’ll do that,” Ruskin said boldly. “Competition is good for business. And my company can’t do business in a county if a man like you tries to hog it all. You can just about set your own terms for beef on this range. And it’s no good that way.”

  Elkhart scowled. He seemed a little shaken, evidently not having counted on Ruskin turning on him. He started to say something, but didn’t. His yellow-brown eyes smoldered.

  Clay noticed Sheriff Bert Lynden at the edge of the crowd, and decided to play it to the hilt.

  “This country is growing and maybe next election time Bert Lynden will have to count votes from the little outfits, as well as the big.” Clay paused to let that sink in, and Lynden listened with his mouth open. “If he wants to wear that badge another term he’d better quit catering to men like you and do an honest job.”

  “Who says I ain’t honest!” Lynden roared, pushing his way forward.

  Before Clay could answer, half a dozen men in the crowd spoke up. “You been Elkhart’s man all along, Sheriff. If that ain’t bein’ dishonest I don’t know what is.”

  Lynden turned red in the face, made a strangling noise, then wheeled abruptly and stormed out of the Frontier House. Somebody laughed at his back, but the sheriff didn’t turn around.

  Elkhart’s face was white. “You move that herd, Janner, and you’ll be in jail.”

  He started toward the door, and at that moment a man burst into the building—a slightly built, freckle-faced man in range clothes. He was covered with dust and patches of sweat showed on his shirt. He looked as if he had traveled a great distance, fast.

  One of the Arrow men, Clay guessed, and watched tensely as the rider signaled to Elkhart and whispered something in his ear. Elkhart turned, a thin smile of triumph on his lips.

  “I got you up short this time, Janner,” he said. “Real short!” He came toward Clay, and men stepped aside to give him room. “I’ve had men lookin’ for an old reprobate named Charlie Snow. Well, they found him at last. Snow’s in the Reeder Wells jail. Held as a material witness. And Charlie Snow has told what he did with the body of Baldy Renson. You paid Snow to hide Renson’s body—”

  “You’re a liar!”

  “Careful, Janner.” Elkhart was grinning. “You shot Baldy. My rider. Shot him inside my property line. Lon Perry and two more of my boys saw you do it. But by the time you drove ’em off with some fancy rifle fire, you’d hid Baldy’s body and—” Elkhart was reaching for his gun. Clay beat him to it. There was a collective gasp of surprise in the room, a frantic shuffling of feet as men fought to get out of the way. Behind the bar a bartender dropped a bottle in his excitement.

  Clay thumbed back the hammer of his revolver. “You know that’s a lie,” he said thinly, trying not to show the fear riding him. “The truth isn’t in
you. Sure I killed Renson. But only when he tried to shoot me in the back—on your orders!”

  Elkhart crouched slightly, hands away from his body. He lifted his gaze from Clay’s gun. “You’re going back to Reeder Wells and stand trial, Mr. Janner,” he said slowly. “You’re going to hang for this. Understand?”

  He turned his back on the gun and walked out of the saloon. After he cleared the door, Ruskin said, “I don’t know anything about this Renson business. But if I were you I’d clear out, Janner. If Elkhart hasn’t got a warrant for you, he’ll get one damn quick.”

  Clay holstered his gun. He saw everybody looking at him. It was one thing to buck a man like Elkhart because of a barbed wire fence. It was something else again to be accused of murder.

  The bartender said in a loud voice, “I’d be obliged if you step outside, Mister. I don’t want this place shot up.”

  Clay went out and stood under the saloon’s overhang. Here the blinding sun could not reach. He watched the passers-by, women and townsmen and ranchers, all hurrying about their business. Kate was somewhere in this town. If he ran now he would never see her again. A month, a week ago he would have climbed on his horse and headed for the badlands, chalking this adventure up to a bad run of the cards. Looking for new fields. But now…

  He felt empty and alone. With Elkhart’s witnesses and Elkhart’s judge and jury they would walk him to the gallows as sure as the sun rose in the morning.

  Joe Alford came along the walk. “Hey, Clay, I—”

  “I thought I told you to stay with the herd!” Clay snarled.

  The big redhead just grinned at him. “Kate sent me to tell you the good news. She found a lawyer and he’s takin’ the case. He says Elkhart ain’t got the chance of an icicle in July. He says—”

  Clay stomped his boot heel on the board walk. “Listen, Joe, things are a lot more serious.”

  “My God, Clay, what’s the matter?”

  “I want you to look after Kate. I—”

  From the corner of his eye he saw Elkhart appear on the opposite side of the street. Elkhart stopped in front of a drygoods store. He was holding a rifle. Coming along the center of the street was the slender, yellow-haired Lon Perry. And on Perry’s shirt, Clay saw a badge.