The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 2

by Louis L'Amour

Chick glanced at the wide-eyed Tom. “If any of these men start to move, just start shootin’.”

  “Wait a minute.” The man who spoke was mean-looking, short, and wiry. “I don’t believe you’ll do this. I don’t believe you’ll burn anybody, but if you take us in, will we have to stand up in court an’—”

  “Tatum’s got the court in his hip pocket,” another sneered.

  Bowdrie glanced at him. “I’ll quote you. So will the youngsters. He won’t have any court in his pocket. He will be in jail.

  “I’m just one Ranger. If anything happens to me or if I need more, they’ll come a-running. We started workin’ on this case while Josh Pettibone was in jail, and we’ve got enough to hang every one of you, but the Tatums will be first.”

  The wiry man interrupted. “Like I say, I don’t believe you’d burn anybody.” He looked into Bowdrie’s hard black eyes and shook his head. “Again, maybe you might. What I’m sayin’ is, if I talk, can I get out of this? Supposin’ I give you a signed statement? Will you give me a runnin’ start?”

  “I will.”

  “Laredo! For the Lord’s sake—!”

  “No, you boys do what you want! I’m gittin’ out o’ this! I ain’t gonna have my neck stretched for nobody, and I surely ain’t gonna stand up there in court.”

  “Dotty?” Bowdrie said. “Get pencil and paper, and what this man says, write down. Then we’ll get him to sign it. But first”—with his left hand Bowdrie went into his saddlebags and brought out a small Bible—“we will just swear him in.”

  The others waited in silence. One of them twitched anxiously. “Laredo, think what you’re doin’!”

  “I am thinkin’. If I stand up in that court, somebody’s goin’ to recognize me. What did them Tatums ever do for me, that I should get hung for them? They paid me my wages, and I earned ever’ cent. I got a few days comin’, and they can have it.”

  Laredo began to speak. “We were sent to burn Pettibone out, and Tatum said he didn’t care what happened to the youngsters, only he didn’t want to be bothered with them. He said to drive ’em out of the country or whatever, that Josh wouldn’t be comin’ back anyway. That’s what Nero Tatum told us.”

  Given the pad on which his statement had been written, he signed it. Without a word, Bowdrie freed him and pointed at the horses. “Take yours an’ get out!”

  For a moment there was silence. “How about me?” The speaker was a rough-looking man whose shirt collar was ringed with dirt. “Can I sign that an’ go free?”

  “Dammit, Bud!” One of the other men lunged at him. His hands and feet were bound, so all he could do was to butt with his head. Bud shook him off.

  “All right, Bud. Sign it and go, but you’re the last one.”

  “What? That’s not fair! Now, you see here, you—”

  “You all had your chance. That chance is gone. You’ll be in court.”

  Most of Mesquite’s population of three hundred and fifty-two people were gathered in the street close to the dance hall that was to double as a courtroom. None of the gathering had seen the buckboard roll into town the night before. The cargo was unloaded in an abandoned stable, and Chick Bowdrie took his place as guard.

  A few people who saw Bowdrie outside the stable wondered at the presence of the man in the flat-crowned hat, wearing twin six-shooters. He was joined by a lean red-haired cowhand who followed him on guard duty.

  Rawboned Judge Ernie Walters, judge by grace of Nero Tatum and two other large ranchers, called the court to order. As was often the case in the earliest days, the conduct of courtroom proceedings was haphazard, depending much on the knowledge or lack of it on the part of the court officials.

  Claude Batten, prosecuting attorney, was presenting the case against Pettibone.

  Walters banged the gavel and glared around the room. “If any of you have ideas of lynchin’, get ’em out of your heads. This here Pettibone is goin’ to get a fair trial before we hang him. Court’s in session!”

  Batten began, “Your Honor, gents of the jury, and folks, this court’s convened to hear evidence an’ pass sentence on this no-account jailbird Josh Pettibone, who’s accused of poisonin’ that fine black mare of our good friend and fellow citizen Nero Tatum.

  “Pettibone done time in jail, one year of it, sent to jail for a crime against Bugs Tatum, Nero’s brother. When he got out, he come here an’ grabbed off a piece of land alongside Nero Tatum an’ waited until he had a chance to get even. He poisoned the best brood mare this side of San Antone!”

  He glared around the room, his eyes hesitating only for an instant on the guileless countenance of Chick Bowdrie, a stranger.

  “Foss Deal?” Batten ordered. “Take the stand!”

  Deal came forward and seated himself. His hair was combed, plastered to his head with water, but he was unshaved. His cruel blue eyes focused on Pettibone and remained there.

  “Foss, tell the court what you saw!”

  Deal cleared his throat. “I was ridin’ out huntin’ strays and I seen Pettibone there poisonin’ Tatum’s Morgan mare. I seen him give her poison, and a few minutes later that hoss fell down an’ died!”

  There was a stir in the courtroom.

  Batten glanced around. “Hear that? I reckon no more’s necessary. Judge, I move you turn this case over to the jury!”

  “Just a minute, your Honor!”

  Bowdrie stood up. Walters, Batten, and Tatum had seen the lean, hard-faced young man and wondered who he was, as strangers were comparatively rare in Mesquite. It was off the beaten track, and they had not expected anyone to interfere in local affairs. So far, they had managed such things very successfully for themselves.

  “Who are you? What right have you to interrupt this proceedin’?”

  Bowdrie smiled, and with the smile his face lighted up, drawing an almost automatic response from many in the courtroom. “In this case, your Honor, I am acting as attorney for the defense.

  “You spoke of giving Mr. Pettibone a fair trial. If that is true, he should get a chance to speak for himself and for his attorney to question the witnesses, and perhaps to offer evidence on behalf of the defendant.”

  Walters glanced uneasily at Nero Tatum. He was confused. Tatum had told him to make it look good, but there was something about this stranger that worried him and spoke of a little more courtroom experience than he had.

  “What can he say?” Batten demanded. “Foss Deal saw him poison her!”

  “That’s the question. Did he see poison given to the mare?”

  “I don’t reckon we have to hear what you have to say,” Walters said. “You set down!”

  “In that case, gentlemen, I shall have to write a complete report of these proceedings for the governor of Texas!”

  “Huh?” Walters was startled. The governor was a faraway but awesome power. He glanced at Nero Tatum, who was frowning. “Just who are you, young feller?”

  “The name is Chick Bowdrie. I am a Texas Ranger.”

  Had he exploded a bomb, it would have caused no more excitement. Tatum caught Walters’ eye and nodded. Claude Batten sat down, looking uneasily at Foss Deal. He had been against the procedure from the first, not from principle but simply because it was too obvious. Not for a minute did he trust Foss Deal, nor believe in the kangaroo-court procedure. He had tried to explain to Tatum that the time for such tactics was past.

  “All right!” Walters grumbled. “Question the witness!”

  Bowdrie strolled over to Deal, who glared at him belligerently. “What kind of poison was it?” he asked.

  “Huh? What was that?”

  “I asked what kind of poison it was.”

  “How should I know? I wasn’t right alongside him.”

  “Then how do you know it was poison?”

  “I reckon I know poison when I see it!”

  “You’re very lucky,” Bowdrie said. He took two small papers from his pocket and opened them. Each contained a small amount of white powder. “Now, my friend, there ar
e two papers. One contains sugar, the other holds a deadly poison. Suppose you decide which is which and then prove you are right by swallowing the one you have decided is not poison.”

  Foss Deal stared at the papers. He licked his lips with his tongue. His back was to Tatum, and he did not know what to do. He twisted in his chair, struggling for words.

  “Come, come, Mr. Deal! You know poison when you see it. We trust your judgment.”

  Batten leaped to his feet. “What are you doing? Trying to poison the witness?”

  “Of course not!” Bowdrie said. “There’s no danger of that! Why, this witness just testified he could recognize poison from a distance of two hundred yards!”

  “I never! I never done such a thing!”

  “If you had ever even been near the place where the mare died, you would know there’s no place where you could watch from cover within two hundred yards!”

  “That’s right!” The voice was from the audience. “I was wonderin’ about that!”

  “Order in the court!” Walters shouted angrily.

  “Isn’t it a fact,” Bowdrie asked, “that you wanted Pettibone off that place so you could file on it yourself?”

  “No such thing!”

  “Then,” Chick suggested, “if Pettibone is convicted, you will not file on it?”

  Deal’s face grew flushed. “Well, I—”

  “Forget it,” Bowdrie said. “Now, you said you saw Pettibone poison the mare? Or at least, you saw him give something to the mare?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He was alone?”

  “Yeah, he was alone.”

  “Deal, where were you the previous night?”

  “Huh?”

  Deal glanced hastily at Batten, but got no help. Claude Batten was unhappy. A Texas Ranger was the last thing he had expected. Previously such cases had all been pushed through without any outward protest. Now what he wanted was to wash his hands of the case and get out. Nero Tatum had gone too far, for no matter how this case turned out, Bowdrie had to write a report. In fact, if Batten understood correctly the Ranger procedure, the chances were that reports had already gone in or that he was acting upon orders.

  “Where were you Friday night?” Bowdrie insisted.

  “Why, I was … I don’t exactly recall.”

  “I can believe that!” Bowdrie said. He turned to the jury. “Gentlemen, I am prepared to prove that the witness was nowhere near Mesquite or the Pettibone ranch on the day in question. I am prepared to produce witnesses who will testify that Deal was lying dead drunk in O’Brien’s Livery Stable in Valentine!”

  Deal sat up sharply, consternation written all over him.

  “Do you deny,” Bowdrie said, “that you were in O’Brien’s stable last Friday night? Or that you ate breakfast at Ma Kennedy’s the next morning?”

  Foss Deal started to speak, stopped, then tried to twist around to catch Tatum’s eye. Tatum avoided his glance. All he wanted now was to get out of this. He wanted out as quickly and quietly as possible. Batten had warned him something like this would happen sooner or later. He should have listened.

  “Your Honor,” Bowdrie said, “I want this man held on a charge of perjury.”

  Before anything more could be said, he stepped up to the table behind which the judge sat, and taking a paper from his pocket, he unwrapped it, displaying the plant he had picked from the edge of the pool where Tatum’s mare had died.

  “Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen, I don’t know as much about legal procedure as I should. I came here because I wanted to see justice done, and there’s more experienced Rangers who could have handled this better, but this plant I have here is called water hemlock. This came from the pool near where Tatum’s mare died, and there’s more of it out there.

  “As most of you know, animals won’t touch it, as a rule, but it’s one of the few green things early in the spring. The leaves and fruit of this plant can be eaten by stock without much danger, but the roots of water hemlock are poisonous.

  “Cattle suffer more from it than horses, but horses, like Tatum’s mare, have died from it, too. In the spring, when it’s green and the soil’s loose, the plant is easier pulled up. When an animal eats water hemlock, the first symptom is frothin’ at the mouth, then convulsions with a lot of groanin’, then the animal dies.

  “Nobody poisoned Tatum’s mare, and Foss Deal lied, as I have shown. The mare was poisoned by water hemlock, and if you open up the stomach you’ll find some of it there. Unless Mr. Batten has more witnesses, I suggest this case be dismissed!”

  Judge Ernie Walters looked uncertainly toward Tatum and Batten, who were whispering together.

  “Nothing more,” Batten said. “We will forget it.”

  As the rancher arose, Chick Bowdrie said, “Nero Tatum, you are under arrest!”

  Tatum’s face flushed. “Look here, young man, you’re going too far! Now, I’ll admit—”

  “Mr. Tatum—”

  “See here, young man, you’re goin’ too far. I’ve friends down at Austin. I’ll have you fired!”

  “No, you won’t, Mr. Tatum. I am arrestin’ you for incitin’ to arson, for conspiracy, and a half-dozen other items. I have signed statements from some of your men and some others who want to turn state’s evidence. You’re going to jail.”

  Bowdrie stepped over to him, and before Tatum realized it, he was handcuffed. Then Bowdrie took him by the elbow and guided him down the street to the jail.

  “Listen!” Tatum said when they reached the jail. “You’ve made your play. Now, let’s talk this over. We’ll forget about Pettibone. He can keep his place. As for you an’ me, I’ve got some money, and—”

  “No, Mr. Tatum. You’re going to jail. You ordered Pettibone’s ranch burned and told your men to get rid of those youngsters, and you didn’t care how.”

  Bowdrie stepped outside. In his hurry to get Tatum locked up, he had forgotten Foss Deal. Now he must find him, for there were few worse crimes against the cause of justice than perjury.

  He had been fortunate, there was no mistaking that, for after bringing the Pettibone children into town, he had encountered Billy O’Brien, the bluff, goodhearted owner of a livery stable in Valentine, a town down the trail. When O’Brien heard about Deal’s accusations, he had come at once to find Bowdrie. Deal had felt safe, for O’Brien rarely left Valentine and the town was some distance away.

  With Tatum in jail, the place was crowded, but Bowdrie intended to add Foss Deal to the collection.

  Crossing the street, he pushed through the batwing doors of the saloon. The bartender, long resentful of the bullying ways of the Tatum cowhands, greeted Bowdrie with pleasure.

  “Have one on the house!” he said affably. As Chick accepted a beer, the bartender whispered, “Watch yourself. Deal’s got a shotgun an’ swears he’ll kill you on sight.”

  Wiping a glass, he added, “When Foss has had a couple, he gets mean. Worst of it is, Bugs Tatum is in town. He declares he’ll have your scalp and Pettibone’s, too.”

  The door pushed open and Josh Pettibone walked in. “Bowdrie, I ain’t had a chance to thank you, but Tatum an’ Deal are huntin’ you, and I’ve come to stand with you.”

  “You go to your youngsters and stay there. Foss Deal wouldn’t be above killin’ your kids to get even. This is my show, and I can handle it alone.”

  The town’s one street had suddenly become empty. He knew western towns well enough to realize the word was out. He knew also that more depended upon this than the mere matter of handling two malcontents. Bugs Tatum and Deal were big cogs in the wheel of Nero Tatum’s control over this corner of Texas, something the Rangers had long contemplated breaking up.

  If he, Bowdrie, should be killed now, what had happened might die with him. Tatum had friends in important places and knew how to wield power, and Bowdrie was essential as a witness, despite whatever reports he had filed.

  Bowdrie had lived long enough to know that killing was rarely a good thing, but
in this town and this area, guns were the last court of appeal. He had appeared here in the name of Texas; now he had to make his final arrests.

  He knew the manner of men they were, and he also knew that not only his life depended upon his skill with a gun, but also those of Josh and his children. The town was waiting to see which would triumph, Texas law or Tatum’s law.

  He stepped outside and moved quickly into the deeper shadow of the building, looking up and down the street. It was cool and pleasant here, for a little breeze came from between the buildings.

  A man whom he did not recognize squatted near the hub of a wheel, his back toward Bowdrie. He was apparently greasing the axle. A door creaked but he did not move. He heard a footfall, then another. The sound seemed to come from the building on his right. As there were no windows on the side toward him, whoever was inside would have to emerge on the street before he could see Bowdrie.

  Listening to catch the slightest sound, he saw that the man greasing the axle, if that was what he was doing, had turned his side toward Bowdrie.

  A shadow moved in the space between two buildings across the street, and from inside the vacant store building beside him a board creaked. If he had to turn toward a man emerging from the empty store, he would be half-turning his back on the man by the wagon wheel.

  The door hinge creaked and Bowdrie moved. Swiftly he ducked back through the batwing doors and ran on cat feet to the back of the saloon and outside. He ran behind the building where he had heard movement and came up on its far side.

  As he neared the front, somebody said, “Where’d he go? Where is he?”

  Chick stepped from behind the building. “Looking for me, gentlemen?”

  The man who had come from the empty building and the one who had come up from between the buildings turned sharply around—Bugs Tatum and Foss Deal.

  The situation was completely reversed from the way it had been planned, but as one man they went for their guns. Chick Bowdrie had an instant’s advantage, the instant it took them to adjust to the changed situation. His draw was a breath faster, his hands steady, his mind cool.

  His right-hand gun bucked, and Bugs Tatum died with his hand clutching a gun he had scarcely gripped. Bowdrie fired at Foss, felt a bullet whip by his face and another kick dust at his feet, fired by the man by the wagon wheel.