Gunsmoke Justice

by Louis Trimble

Comprehension began to work into Biddle’s scooped features. He lifted his lamp and started for the bedroom. “I’ll see to him,” he said.

  “But not until I say so,” Quarles warned.

  “I can wait,” Biddle said.

  • • •

  Brad rode into the Split S yard and went quietly to the old barn. Getting the two packs he had put together, he slipped out as silently as he had come. He had not planned on using them so soon, but now he was glad they were ready for him. He and Olaf camped high on the Split S range at the edge of the timber. Before the first daylight they were up, and long before the sun rose Brad was across on Biddle’s land, looking for tracks leading from the place where the Split S fence had been torn out and repaired.

  It was still early when he found the grass-bottomed draw that held a herd of Split S beef. He guessed somewhere around three hundred head was in here. There was no guard; this fine grass and a spring close by kept the stock content.

  “Biddle did this,” Brad said, “and Arden didn’t seem to like it.”

  “Do we take them back?” Olaf questioned.

  “Back to Split S,” Brad agreed, “but not to the same place.” Noticing Olaf’s puzzled expression, he said, “Olaf, when you start hitting a man, keep on hitting until you’re done with him. When you get him in a corner, keep him there. Being soft is fine for some people, but Quarles isn’t soft, and you can’t fight him that way.”

  He rolled a cigarette, and when he looked over it at Olaf his eyes were bleak. “We hit Quarles twice now. We got to keep on hitting him or he’ll get out of the corner. He’s got more power than we have. Remember that. Hit and keep hitting.”

  “Yah,” Olaf agreed gravely. And Brad could see that he was remembering the beating at the homestead.

  “So,” Brad went on, “we take this stock into Pine Canyon. I got an idea. If it works we’ve got Quarles closer to where we want him.” He shook his head as if to clear it of heaviness. “Quarles won’t wait and Arden won’t wait. I’m not waiting from here on.”

  He thought of Arden with bitterness. Faith McFee was promised to him and June Grant trusted in him. There was nothing that Brad could do yet. Not to Arden. How could he make the others understand? He was a newcomer, a man they thought of as brutal — a drifter; his word would be worth nothing. He would have to wait for a way to show the real Arden to Faith and June Grant. With a motion of anger he started for the herd of beef.

  Olaf worked willingly and, after a few instructions, did his share in getting the stock moving. Brad led them out of the draw and over a little rise that led to Split S graze. From here he angled toward Pine Canyon. It was slow going and a few head escaped Olafs efforts back at drag, but the distance wasn’t far, and before the sun was straight overhead the first of the beef was going between the two tall pines that marked the mouth of the canyon.

  Brad moved aside and let them go. The telltale sign of smoke coming from the line shack inside warned him that there were still Sawhorse or Double Q men here.

  Half the cattle were in when Brad heard a rider coming from up canyon. He and Olaf sat around a pointed ledge, out of sight of the canyon mouth. The rider appeared, moving easily in and out of the drifting cattle. He was a man Brad had never seen before and, telling Olaf to stay out of sight, Brad rode into view.

  “Where you been?” he demanded. “Biddle said you’d help move this bunch.” He scowled at the man, who was slack-jawed with surprise. “I only get paid to do one man’s work.”

  “Who in hell are you?” the man asked.

  Brad gave a name offhand and repeated his question. The hand had evidently been up here too long to have heard of his return. This was what Brad had hoped for. If it had turned out otherwise, his gun was ready to take over the argument. Now the man shook his head.

  “I got no orders,” he said.

  “You’re getting them,” Brad told him. “Biddle said he was sending someone to tell you. You’re supposed to move the other stock out to where this came from.”

  The man’s eyes, set deep in a thin face, flickered with suspicion. “Since when?”

  “Since last night,” Brad said flatly. “Split S hired a crew of hardcases and they’re getting proddy. Biddle wants this stuff where it won’t be found.” A smile twisted the corner of his mouth. “And if it is found, who’s to say this canyon ain’t Split S graze anyway?” He laughed at the joke. The other man smiled faintly, and then guffawed as he caught on to the idea.

  “Nick didn’t figure that one out,” he said.

  “No, Quarles did.”

  The man seemed satisfied. He swung his horse. “All right, help me move the other out.”

  “I got some strays to pick up,” Brad told him. “You ain’t crippled.”

  The man shrugged and rode back into the canyon, hoorawing the tag end of the stock as he went. Brad chuckled softly on his way back to Olaf. He explained his plan carefully to the big man, and when he had finished Olaf nodded, a broad smile of anticipation on his face.

  Brad left his horse and climbed, following a faint deer trail until he could look down into Pine Canyon. He could see three men working below, shunting the Split S stock off to one side and rounding up the Double Q and Sawhorse beef. They had not put too much on, Brad observed, just enough to stake a claim to the grass. It was a weak enough claim, but with three men to hold it, June Grant had been able to do little.

  In a short while eighty-odd head of beef started for the mouth of the canyon and Brad eased back to the level. He staked himself at one side of the mouth, leaving Olaf on the other. The thin-faced man he had talked to came out presently, riding point, and Brad showed himself to view. His gun was held loosely in his hand.

  “Friend,” he said softly, “just ride to your right.”

  The man gaped at him and looked as if he might go for his gun. Brad lifted his own, making his point plain. With his hands held away from his sides, the man moved to the right. Suddenly a large arm snaked out, catching him by the throat. He made a single squawking sound and disappeared.

  Brad slipped back out of sight. The beef began to pour through. This was the ticklish time, with two men to handle. They came, finally, out of the thin dust the cattle were throwing up. Brad knew neither man. Once more he rode into sight.

  “Lift ‘em,” he ordered brusquely.

  One man did as he was told, but the other reached for his gun. Brad sent a shot snapping at his hat and his hands went up hurriedly. Loyalty, Brad knew, went as far as a man’s pay in cases like this, and he had counted on the fact that these two would figure they weren’t being paid to buck odds.

  Olaf rode out at Brad’s call and with surprising deftness roped both men. He went away and came back, leading the first man also roped to his horse. “Now,” Brad said, “we’ll take a little trip.”

  They went sullenly, unable to do more than guide their horses the way he directed. Carefully, Brad made a wide swing so that he came down at the town from the west. After a short distance the mountains leveled into sage hills and then dropped lower until they were on the flats. Coming in from this direction they met no one.

  It took a little time to find a way across the river gully, but finally Brad herded his captives to town, coming in from below the One-Shot Saloon. Here he stopped and had Olaf remove the ropes.

  “Just keep on like I say,” he warned. “If you don’t think we can shoot, try running.”

  They continued their sullen riding right up to the front of the jail. The blacksmith’s boy, Jube, was on the street, and his mouth fell open at the sight of the drifter and the big Swede herding two Sawhorse men and a Double Q rider into the jail.

  McFee was at his desk, his feet cocked up. They came down with a thump when Brad pushed the men in. Brad said, “Found these three, Sheriff. Wearing guns in town. Figure you’d want to know.”

  “He prodded us into town!” the thin-faced man blustered.

  Brad took his gun and laid it on a chair, near to hand, and motioned to Olaf to
do the same. “Ours are checked,” he said. The cold humor glinted in his eyes. “But these are plain lawbreakers, McFee. I say lock ’em up.”

  The thin-faced man squawked again. McFee growled at them. He looked angry, and Brad realized it was directed at him. “Sawhorse and Double Q,” he muttered.

  “Break laws like everyone else,” Brad said. His eyes met those of the sheriff and held steadily. “You ever been to Pine Canyon, Sheriff? Pretty place.” He went on softly. “And full of Split S beef. I counted three hundred head. And Split S fence was knocked down yesterday.”

  “I’m not the law in the valley,” the sheriff said stiffly.

  “These men are in town wearing guns. Are you the law here?”

  McFee pressed his lips tightly together. This was a pretty obvious box Jordan had squeezed him into. He hesitated, weighing the outcome of this. His anger at Brad tipped the scales.

  Brad thought he understood what was eating at McFee, but he didn’t let up. The humor was gone from him now, leaving his eyes a flinty gray. He continued to stare at the sheriff until McFee lowered his own gaze.

  “I can’t hold them,” he said. “They got a chance to check their guns. If not, then they’ll have to ride out.”

  The thin-faced man protested, “And let him trail us and do it all over again?”

  “I’m not the law in the valley,” McFee answered. “He can do what he wants out of town.”

  Brad had half expected this, yet it sickened him. He jerked his head. “Go on and ride,” he said. “Go tell Biddle and Quarles.” His voice sharpened. “But the next time you touch Split S beef or put your foot in Pine Canyon I start shooting.”

  The thin-faced man started to laugh, saw Brad’s face, and swallowed back the sound. He led the others out; they mounted and rode hard going north. Brad turned from the doorway to the sheriff.

  “Thanks for the help, McFee.”

  “I ain’t the law in the valley and — ”

  “The valley’s bigger than the town,” Brad said. “When Quarles has swallowed everything there, this place won’t be a good bite. Remember that.”

  McFee sat down, trembling. “Get the hell out of my office!” he ordered.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  IN THE MORNING Arden took the team and spring wagon and headed for town. He had seen no sign of Jordan, nor heard any repercussions of the night before. Quarles’ men might have caught Jordan and Hegstrom, he thought, but his hopes were not high. Jordan was too clever a man to be easily trapped.

  The worry over what had happened and what could come of it lay heavy on his mind. That, coupled with the rustling of the Split S beef by Biddle, ate into him steadily as he rode along. When he paused and looked across at Quarles’ and Biddle’s fields he felt no better. They were done with haymaking there. The great stacks stood solid and rich, waiting for winter.

  Close around him was the yellow Split S hay, and the sight of it put a bitter taste in his mouth. He was all too aware of the position Quarles had placed him in. Should Quarles decide to throw against him, Arden knew he would be squeezed out with no recourse. Even if June went under and he got his opportunity to take over, without hay he would be no better off than she. If Quarles chose not to let him have winterfeed, where was he?

  The idea of it grew stronger, nourished by Quarles’ attitude of last night. By the time Arden reached town he had worked himself into a mood of sullen revengefulness. Leaving the team behind the Sawhorse Saloon, he went first to the store and got his machinery, and after that stopped briefly to speak to Faith. Then he walked deliberately up the stairs to Keinlan’s office. He went in without knocking.

  He was ready for a showdown talk with Quarles, and when he found only Keinlan in the office it took him a moment to adjust to the situation. Keinlan regarded him in silence, studying Arden’s dark scowl.

  “Something eating you?” Keinlan asked pleasantly.

  “I want to see Quarles.”

  “Not here yet,” Keinlan said. He measured his man and decided that this was the time. “Have a drink,” he said without joviality.

  Arden’s suspicion showed. “Since when you getting so friendly?” he demanded in a surly tone.

  Keinlan took one of his cigars and rustled it between his long fingers. “You come in here looking for Quarles and on the prod,” he answered. His drooping eyelids shut out anything Arden might want to see. “That makes you what some would call a kindred spirit.”

  The suspicion stayed openly on Arden’s face. He had never liked this man because he had never really known him. Keinlan was just a flickering character who moved in and out of his saloon; Arden had never been able to pin him down. He only knew that when a man was down and out Keinlan usually had a hand in helping him. But outside of that he had no clues to the mind of the saloon owner.

  Now Arden said, “My business with Quarles is private.”

  “Sure,” Keinlan agreed easily. “Nobody knows about it but you and him and me.” He paused and added dryly, “And most of the Double Q hands.”

  Arden’s baffled anger started to twist toward this man who was obviously goading him. And then he stopped it. Thoughtfully, he took a chair and shaped a cigarette. Keinlan wasn’t talking just to hear his own words, Arden suspected. There was meaning here if he could get at it.

  “Say what you’re trying to,” he ordered. Touching a match to his cigarette, he sucked smoke in deeply. His eyes watched Keinlan over the top of the flame, but there was nothing in that long drooping face to give him a hint of what went on behind it.

  “Quarles is starting to move,” Keinlan said. He laid down his unlit cigar and pressed the tips of his fingers together. “He’s got it figured to get rid of the ones in his way before he goes up against the Split S.”

  “Split S is nothing,” Arden said curtly.

  “Not even with Jordan there now?” Keinlan countered. He saw Arden’s surprised expression. “Sure,” he went on, “what’s between you and Quarles is your private business. Only Quarles was in last night telling me what happened.”

  “Why?” Arden demanded. He was no longer making much effort to hide his feelings from Keinlan. His wonder over all this was plain.

  “Quarles thinks you’re up to something,” Keinlan said blandly. “He wants me to find out what it is.”

  Arden took a deep drag from his cigarette; his hand shook noticeably. “Why?” he demanded again.

  “I told you, Quarles figured on getting rid of the ones in his way,” Keinlan answered. His half-shut eyes flickered. He was a patient man; he had waited a long time for what was soon to come.

  “But I’m with him,” Arden cried. “I’m not against him.” He got to his feet, his anger forgotten in a rush of fear. In that moment he could see what he had schemed for being drawn away from him, inch by tantalizing inch. “Him and me — ”

  Keinlan’s voice was smooth. “He don’t trust you, Arden. You’re smart, maybe too smart for him. He’s afraid of that.”

  The smooth talk went over Arden, easing his fright and giving him a chance to think again. Once more his suspicion returned, directed at Keinlan. “You’re his man. Why tell me this?”

  “I’m my own man,” Keinlan said, “Quarles thinks I’m his man. He thinks you are, too.”

  Arden sat down again, his breathing heavy. “You haven’t said anything yet.”

  “Quarles wants Split S,” Keinlan told him. “He and Biddle figure on having everything worth having on the west side, including your two-bit piece. When that’s swallowed, they’ll be too big to hold and they’ll go east.”

  “I was to get Split S,” Arden said furiously. “That was in the deal.”

  “So it was,” Keinlan murmured, and his smile made a point of it.

  Arden flung his cigarette angrily toward a spittoon and immediately began to roll another. He sat hunched over, smoking fitfully, turning Keinlan’s words over, letting them work into his mind. The more he thought about them, the more sense they made. Particularly after last nig
ht.

  He straightened up and dropped the second cigarette after the first one. “Bring out that drink,” he said.

  Keinlan was careful, apparently matching Arden drink for drink. But he knew his own capacity, and he knew how to make another man think he was taking on as big a load or bigger. He did little talking until the contents of the bottle were well along toward the bottom.

  Arden’s breathing had become heavy. His thirst, fed by injured anger, was consuming him. He was not a heavy drinking man except when pressures grew too great for him. Usually he was too much aware of his weakness toward liquor, and he stayed carefully away from more than one or two Saturday night glasses.

  Keinlan saw the liquor sweat on Arden’s forehead and he moved in, still cautiously. “Quarles figures on getting you in a tight place and then you’ll have to work for him and get nothing for it.”

  Arden wiped at his forehead. “I’ve got more savvy than Quarles. Let him think it. When the squeeze comes, he’ll get caught, not me.”

  “That’s right,” Keinlan said. “You play it right and that’s the way it’ll be.” He lifted the bottle and poured Arden a shot with exaggerated care.

  Arden drank and mulled it over. He drank again, and finally he burst out, “So he thinks he’ll get me before I get him!”

  “He counts on it.” Keinlan was willing to wait, to play this along until it came out of Arden of his own free will. It was not long. Arden began to see Keinlan in a new light. Here was a man he had misjudged. Here was a friend when one was needed. Keinlan would help him outwit Quarles. And help him get rid of this new threat to his plans — Jordan. Keinlan could see Arden’s ideas forming, and he dropped just enough of the right words to make them come.

  “Jordan’s dangerous, too,” Arden said. “Maybe it was just luck that he happened to go to Quarles’ last night, and maybe he figured it out. I don’t know.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Keinlan said. “What does matter is the fact that he went and saw you there.”

  “I can straighten it out with June Grant,” Arden said. “But it don’t make things any easier.”