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

by Louis L'Amour

“It just happened that a little fat drummer was standin’ there who had known you in Memphis. Big Tom Caughter, the smartest crook of them all, the man who never left a witness and always got away with the loot. Ferd Cassidy was Lonnie Webb, a Kansas boy with a gift for picking locks, other people’s locks.”

  Katch was thinking. Bowdrie could almost see his mind working, and this was a shrewd, dangerous man. Always before he had gotten away with it. No trail, no witnesses, no evidence. Four big jobs, and this was to be the fifth.

  Katch shrugged. “Well, I guess a man can’t win ’em all. With the money I’ve got cached I can be out in a couple of years.”

  “Sounds easy, doesn’t it?” Bowdrie said. “But what about the killings?”

  “You mean Zaparo? You can’t prove I was there. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t. Anyway, no jury is going to hang me for killing a few Mexican outlaws.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of Zaparo. I was thinking of Ferd Cassidy. That was a cold-blooded killing. I saw it.”

  “Oh? So that’s the way it is?” Katch eyed him with a steady, assured gaze. “Then we don’t need a witness. When you die, who else will know?”

  “The Rangers are outside waitin’ for my signal,” Bowdrie said. “Your boys are already rounded up, and without a shot fired. I was waiting to hear, but there never was a one. Now I’ll take you.”

  Katch flashed a hand for his gun, incredibly fast, only Bowdrie was already shooting.

  Coker stepped into the door. “Get ’em all?” Chick asked.

  “Yeah.” He looked at the bodies. “Both of them yours?”

  “Only the big one.” He looked at Katch and shook his head. “Rip, that man had brains, some education, and nerve. Why can’t they ever realize they can’t beat the law?”

  South of Deadwood

  The Cheyenne to Deadwood Stage was two hours late into Pole Creek Station, and George Gates, the driver, had tried to make up for lost time. Inside the coach the five passengers had been jounced up and down and side to side as the Concord thundered over the rough trail.

  The girl with the golden hair and gray eyes who was sitting beside the somber young man in the black flat-crowned hat and black frock coat had been observing him surreptitiously all the way from Cheyenne.

  He had a dark, Indian-like face with a deep, dimplelike scar under his cheekbone, and despite his inscrutable manner he was singularly attractive. Yet he had not spoken a word since leaving Cheyenne.

  It was otherwise with the burly red-cheeked man with the walrus mustache. He had talked incessantly. His name, the girl had learned with no trouble at all, was Walter Luck.

  “Luck’s my name,” he stated, “and luck’s what I got!”

  The other blond was Kitty Austin, who ran a place of entertainment in Deadwood. Kitty was an artificial blond, overdressed and good-natured but thoroughly realistic in her approach to life and men. The fifth passenger had also been reticent, but it finally developed that his name was James J. Bridges.

  “I want no trouble with you!” Luck bellowed. “I don’t aim to cross no bridges!” And the coach rocked with his laughter.

  The golden-haired girl’s name, it developed, was Clare Marsden, but she said nothing of her purpose in going to Deadwood until Luck asked.

  “You visitin’ relatives, ma’am? Deadwood ain’t no place for a girl alone.”

  “No.” Her chin lifted a little, as if in defiance. “I am going to see a man. His name is Curly Starr.”

  If she had struck them one simultaneous slap across their mouths they could have been no more startled. They gaped, their astonishment too real to be concealed. Luck was the first to snap out of it.

  “Why, ma’am!” Luck protested. “Curly Starr’s an outlaw! He’s in jail now, just waitin’ for the law from Texas to take him back! He’s a killer, a horse thief, and a hold-up man!”

  “I know it,” Clare said stubbornly. “But I’ve got to see him! He’s the only one who can help me!”

  She was suddenly aware that the dark young man beside her was looking at her for what she believed was the first time. He seemed about to speak when the stage rolled into the yard at Pole Creek Station and raced to a stop.

  Peering out, they saw Fred Schwartz’s sign—CHOICEST WINE, LIQUOR, AND CIGARS—as the man himself came out to greet the new arrivals.

  The young man in the black hat was beside her. He removed his hat gracefully and asked, “If I may make so bold? Would you sit with me at supper?”

  It was the first time he had spoken and his voice was low, agreeable, and went with his smile, which had genuine charm, but came suddenly and was gone.

  “Why, yes. I would like that.”

  Over their coffee, with not much time left, he said, “You spoke of seein’ Curly Starr, ma’am? Do you know him?”

  “No, I don’t. Only …” She hesitated, and then as he waited, she added, “He knows my brother, and he could help if he would. My brother is in trouble and I don’t believe he’s guilty. I think Curly Starr does know who is.”

  “I see. You think he might clear your brother?”

  There was little about Curly Starr he did not know. Starr, along with Doc Bentley, Ernie Joslin, Tobe Storey, and a kid called Bill Cross had held up the Cattleman’s Bank in Mustang, killing two men in the process. Billy Marsden, son of the owner of the Bar M Ranch, had been arrested and charged with the killing. It was claimed he was Bill Cross.

  “I hope he will. I’ve come all the way from Texas just to talk to him.”

  “They’ll be takin’ him back to Texas,” the young man suggested. “Couldn’t you have waited?”

  “I had to see him first! I’ve been told that awful gunfighting Ranger, Chick Bowdrie, is coming after him. He might kill Starr before he gets back to Texas.”

  “Now I doubt that. I hear the Rangers never kill a man unless he’s shootin’ at them. Have you ever met this Bowdrie fellow?”

  “No, but I’ve heard about him, and that’s enough.”

  Gates thrust his head in the door. “Time to mount up, folks! Got to roll if we aim to make Deadwood on time.”

  Clare Marsden hurried outside and Walter Luck stepped up beside her.

  “Seen you talkin’ with that young feller in the black hat. Did he tell you his name?”

  “Why, no,” she realized. “He did not mention it.”

  “Seems odd,” Luck said as he seated himself. “We all told our names but him.”

  Kitty Austin drew a cigar from her bag and put it in her mouth. “Not strange a-tall! Lots of folks don’t care to tell their names. It’s their own business!”

  She glanced at Clare Marsden. “Hope you don’t mind the smoke, ma’am. I sure miss a cigar if I don’t have one after dinner. Some folks like to chaw, but I’m no hand for it, myself. That Calamity Jane, she chaws, but she’s a rough woman. Drives an ox team an’ cusses like she means it.”

  Luck had a cigarette but he tossed it out of the window as the stage started.

  The young man in the black hat reached into his pocket and withdrew a long envelope, taking from it a letter, which he glanced at briefly as they passed the last lighted window. He had turned the envelope to extract the letter, but not so swiftly that it missed the trained eye of Gentleman Jim Bridges. It was addressed, Chick Bowdrie, Texas Rangers, El Paso, Texas.

  Bridges was a man who could draw three aces in succession and never turn a hair. He did not turn one now, although there was quick interest in his eyes. There was a glint in them as he glanced from Bowdrie to the girl and at last to Walter Luck.

  “If you plan to see Starr, you’d better get at it,” Luck suggested. “Texas wants him back and I hear they’re sendin’ a man after him. They’re sendin’ that border gunfighter, Chick Bowdrie.”

  “Never heard of him,” Bridges lied.

  “He’s good, they say. With a gun, I mean. Of course, he ain’t in a class with Doc Bentley or Ernie Joslin. That says nothin’ of Allison or Hickok.”

  “That’s what you say.”
Kitty Austin took the cigar from her teeth. “Billy Brooks told me Bowdrie was pure-Dee poison. Luke Short said the same.”

  “I ain’t interested in such,” Luck replied. “Minin’ is my game. Or mine stock. I buy stock on occasion when the prospects are good. I don’t know nothin’ about Texas. Never been south of Wichita.”

  Bowdrie leaned back and relaxed his muscles to the movement of the stage. Clare Marsden aroused his sympathy as well as his curiosity, yet he knew that Billy Marsden was as good as convicted, and conviction meant hanging. Yet if his sister was right and Starr knew something that might clear him, he would at least have a fighting chance. How much of a chance would depend on what Starr had to say, if anything. The court would not lightly accept the word of an outlaw trying to clear one of his own outfit.

  If he had even a spark of the courage it took to send his sister rolling over a thousand miles of rough roads, he might yet make something of himself.

  Chick had himself made a start down the wrong road before McNelly recruited him for the Rangers. It had been to avenge a friend that he had joined the Rangers. It led to the extinction of the Ballard gang and the beginning of his own reputation along the border. Yet since he had ridden into that lonely ranch in Texas, badly wounded and almost helpless, he had never drawn a gun except on the side of the law.

  It was easy enough for even the best of young men to take the wrong turning when every man carried a gun and when an excess of high spirits could lead to trouble. Chick Bowdrie made a sudden resolution. If there was the faintest chance for Billy Marsden, he would lend a hand.

  Dealing with Curly Starr would not be simple. Curly was a hard case. He had killed nine or ten men, had rustled a lot of stock, stood up a few stages, and robbed banks. Yet so far as Bowdrie was aware, there were no killings on Starr’s record where the other man did not have an even break. According to the customs of the country that spoke well for the man.

  When the stage rolled to a stop before the IXL Hotel & Dining Room in Deadwood, a plan was shaping in Bowdrie’s mind. He was the last one to descend from the stage and his eyes took in an unshaven man in miner’s clothing who lounged against the wall of the IXL, a man who muttered something under his breath as Luck passed him.

  Stooping, Bowdrie picked up Clare’s valise with his left hand and carried it into the hotel. She turned, smiling brightly. “Thank you so much! You didn’t tell me your name?”

  “Bowdrie, ma’am. I’m Chick Bowdrie.”

  Her eyes were startled, and she went white to the lips. He stepped back, embarrassed. “If there’s any way I can help, you’ve only to ask. I’ll be stayin’ in the hotel.”

  He turned quickly away, leaving her staring after him.

  Bowdrie did not wait to see what she would do or say, nor did he check in at the hotel. He had sent word to Seth Bullock, and knew the sheriff would have made arrangements. He headed for the jail.

  Curly Starr was lounging on his cot when Bowdrie walked up to the bars. “Howdy, Starr! Comfortable?”

  Starr glanced up, then slowly swung his feet to the floor. “Bowdrie, is it? Looks like they sent the king bee.”

  Bowdrie shook his head. “No, that would be Gillette or Armstrong. One of the others.

  “Anyway, I’ve a lot of work to do when I get you back, Curly. There’s Bentley, Joslin, Tobe Storey to round up.” And then he added, “We’ve got the kid.”

  Starr came to the bars. “Got any smokin’?”

  Bowdrie tossed him a tobacco sack and some papers. “Keep ’em,” he said.

  “Curly,” he said as Starr rolled his smoke, “the kid’s going to get hung unless something turns up to help him.”

  “Tough.” Curly touched his tongue to the paper. “We can go out together, if you get me back to Texas.”

  “I’ll get you back, settin’ a saddle or across one, but that kid’s pretty young to die. If you know anything that would help, tell me.”

  “Help?” Starr chuckled. He was a big, brawny young man with a hard, square brown face and tight dark curls. “You’re the law, Bowdrie. You’d hang a man, but I doubt if you’d help one.”

  “He’s a kid. I’d give any man a break.”

  “He was old enough to pack a gun. In this life a man straddles his own horses and buries his dead. Nobody is lookin’ for any outs for me. Besides, how do I know you ain’t diggin’ for evidence against the kid? Or all of us?”

  Despite himself Bowdrie was disturbed as he walked back to the IXL. He was positive the man Luck had spoken to was Tobe Storey. He had had only a glimpse, but the man’s jawline was familiar, and the Pecos gunman could have ridden this way.

  What if they had all ridden this way? What if they planned a jailbreak? Curly Starr was the leader of the outfit and they had ridden together for a long time.

  Later, in the dining room of the IXL, he loitered over his coffee. Deadwood was wide open and booming. Named for the dead trees along a hillside above the town, it was really a succession of towns in scattered valleys in the vicinity.

  The Big Horn Store, the Gem Theater, the Bella Union Variety Theater, run by Jack Langrishe, and the Number Ten Saloon all were busy, crowded most of the time.

  After leaving the jail, Bowdrie had drifted in and out of most of the places, alert for any of the Starr outfit. Now he sat over coffee for the same purpose, waiting, watching.

  The door opened and Seth Bullock appeared. With him was Clare Marsden. As her eyes met Bowdrie’s, she flushed. Bowdrie arose as they came to the table.

  “Bowdrie, this young lady wants to talk to Curly Starr. I told her Starr was your prisoner and she would have to ask you.”

  “She can talk to him,” Bowdrie replied. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed a man standing just inside the saloon, looking into the dining room. It was the man he believed was Tobe Storey.

  “Tonight?” Clare asked.

  Bowdrie hesitated. It was foolhardy to open the jail now unless necessary, but …

  “All right. I’ll go along.”

  As she turned toward the door, he hesitated long enough to whisper to Seth Bullock, “Tobe Storey’s in town, and maybe the rest of that Starr outfit.”

  She walked along beside him without speaking, until suddenly she looked up at him. “I suppose you think I am a fool to come all this distance to help a man who is as good as convicted, even if he is my brother.”

  “No, ma’am, I don’t. If you think there’s a chance for him, you’d be a fool not to try, but if you’ve any reason for believing your brother wasn’t involved, why not tell me?”

  “But you’re a Ranger!” The way she said it, the term sounded like an epithet.

  “All the more reason. You’ve got us wrong, ma’am. Rangers don’t like to jail folks unless they’ve been askin’ for it. Out on the edge of things like this, if there weren’t any Rangers there’d be no place for people like you.

  “If your brother took money with a pistol, he’s a thief and a dangerous man, and if he killed or had a part in killing an innocent man, he should hang for it.

  “If he didn’t, then he should go free, and if Starr has evidence that he’s innocent, I’ll do my best to clear him.”

  They turned a corner but a sudden movement in the shadows and the rattle of a stone caused Chick Bowdrie to swing aside, brushing Clare Marsden back with a sweep of his arm.

  A gun flamed from the shadows and a bullet tugged at his shoulder. Only his sudden move had saved them, but his gun bellowed a reply.

  He ran to the mouth of the alley, then stopped. It led into a maze of shacks, barns, and corrals, and there was nobody in sight. The ambusher was gone.

  He walked back to Clare. She stared at him, pale and shocked. “That man tried to kill you!” she protested.

  “Yes, ma’am. I am a Ranger and they know why I am in town.”

  “But why here? Deadwood is a long way from Texas!”

  “I am here to take Starr back. They don’t want him to go. If your brother was involved in that hold
-up, the man who tried to kill me is his friend. Or an associate, at least.”

  “My brother wouldn’t do any such thing!” she protested, but her voice was weak.

  He had expected something of the kind. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully as they neared the jail, remembering something he had noticed earlier.

  The deputy on guard opened the door cautiously, gun in hand, then opened it wider when he saw who was there.

  Starr was sprawled on his bunk. A big man in a checked shirt, jeans stuffed into cowhide boots.

  He swung his feet to the floor. “You again? Was that you they shot at?”

  “Wouldn’t you know?” Bowdrie saw Starr’s eyes go to the tear in the shoulder of Bowdrie’s shirt. “Close, that one. I reckon the boys aren’t holdin’ as steady as they should.”

  His eyes shifted to Clare, and he came quickly to his feet, surprise mingled with respect. He could see at a glance that she was a decent girl, and he had that quick western courtesy toward women. “How d’you do, ma’am?”

  “Curly, this is Clare Marsden, sister of Billy Marsden. The law thinks he is Bill Cross. She hopes you can tell her somethin’ that will get her brother off the hook.”

  Starr shrugged contemptuously. “Is this another trick, Bowdrie? I won’t give evidence, not any kind of evidence. I don’t know anybody named Marsden, or Cross either. I’ve nothing to say.”

  “You can’t help me?” she pleaded. “If only Billy wasn’t with you! Or if he was only holding the horses or something!”

  Curly avoided her eyes. He looked a little pale but he was stubborn. “I don’t know nothin’ about it.”

  “You were seen an’ identified by four men, Curly.” Bowdrie’s tone was gentle. “So was Tobe. Everybody in town knew Bentley. That leaves Joslin and the kid. We have no description of Joslin, but the kid was identified by one man and he was caught under suspicious circumstances. If you can save his neck, why not do it?”

  She stared helplessly for a moment, then dropped her hands from the bars and turned away with a gesture of hopelessness that caught at Chick’s heart.

  “Starr, I knew you were a thief but I didn’t think you were a damned louse! This won’t do you any good.”