by T. T. Flynn
THE MAN FROM LARAMIE
T. T. Flynn
LEISURE BOOKS NEW YORK CITY
Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Other Leisure books by T. T. Flynn
Copyright
Chapter One
They had been at the salt lagoons three sweating, vigilant days now, loading the four big freight wagons. The heat this third day had a brassy scorch as Will Lockhart climbed the lava cone that lifted raw and steep at the east end of the lagoons.
He climbed with steady, thrusting steps, a long man burned dark, his bleached denim pants crusted white with dried salt. When he halted on a slab of gas-pitted lava below the jagged peak, the gray shirt was plastered darkly to his sweating back. Sucking great breaths, he looked southwest over the arid plain to the wreckage of two burned wagons.
When his own four wagons had reached the lagoons, smoke wisps had still curled lazily from that fire-blackened wreckage. The dead teamsters had been callously burned, too. Apache! Again—Apache! And the same howling fury could return. Will Lockhart’s watchful glance tilted down to his four wagons and the five men loading coarse damp salt.
Ready by sundown, he guessed. The crystallized shore salt and glassy lagoons had a glinting, evil shimmer which made him squint.
Six bridled mules were picketed near the wagons. Twenty-six other mules, chain-hobbled and listless in the molten heat, had scattered out on scanty grass and the thistly growth called sisaña. The mules, Will decided, were ready. He looked south, and his narrowed gaze tightened on a far, diaphanous lift of dust.
The flat planes of his dark-burned face stayed composed and intent as Will watched. Finally he called down through cupped hands to the wagons, “Visitors south!”
Smiling faintly, Will watched the five men drop shovels and break for the picketed mules. One man moved leisurely, almost disdainfully. That one, Will saw, was Charley Yuill, an odd mixture of Scot father and Indian mother.
“Probably from Fort Roxton!” Will called, and started down.
The men straggled to meet him, unshaven, too, their clothes stiff also with white, dried salt. Charley Yuill, his mahogany skin tight over the wide cheekbones of his Indian blood, and whisker bristle a startling, challenging red, gave the others a faintly derisive look and asked, “Do we fort up or run?”
Will grinned. “Charley, we load salt. One rider is scouting ahead of that dust. I’ll watch him.”
Shovels were banging again on the wagon sideboards when a rider came on the trot down the last long arid slope, and became a broad-shouldered lieutenant out of Fort Roxton.
Will Lockhart noted the straight back and fine tawny mustache. He gestured a greeting as the lieutenant swung down and swiped a perspiring face with a blue neckerchief end.
“Lieutenant Evans, commanding a patrol out of Fort Roxton.” It held a trace of pompousness.
Evans knocked dust from his black felt hat and placed the hat back on his head firmly, precisely, without rake, Will Lockhart’s interested glance noted. Mildly, Will said, “I’m Lockhart—My wagons.”
He watched Evans’s frowning estimate of wagons, mules, and men, and made an abrupt decision. No humor. Knows the book, and that’s how it’d better be.
Will wryly reflected on the folly of men while Evans nodded indifferently and bluntly demanded, “How well are you men armed?”
“Three rifles and four handguns.”
“For six men?”
Will nodded, and Lieutenant Evans censured him with brusque annoyance. “Hardly a mile from where two wagons were attacked and burned four days ago. And not enough weapons to protect yourselves.”
Will’s gaze took on bland irony. “Now,” Will murmured, “we have you, Mr. Evans. And your command.”
Evans’s stare fixed alertly on him, and ruefully Will decided, No fool on regulations. Silently he damned the slip of tongue which had said, “Mr. Evans,” in the easy manner of rank to rank.
Evans said irritably, “The Apache is getting hold of the latest repeating rifles. And you men are here like sitting ducks.”
“One of my drivers is quarter-Zuni, quarter-Apach’,” Will said easily. “He thinks some young Mescaleros out hunting their manhood blooded on those two wagon drivers, then pulled fast for the home wickiups, satisfied.”
Evans snorted.
Will casually added, “I agree with Charley; waste of time to patrol through here now.”
Lieutenant Evans gave him an affronted look and a curt “Haven’t asked your opinion. I’m told sweet water can be found by that volcanic rise.”
Will nodded. Suspicion was stirring in Evans’s stare, and Will guessed what it might be and tightened warily against it as Evans said slowly, “I can’t place you—Cavalry, wasn’t it?” Evans’s aloof inspection of the dirty, brine-crusted figure before him suggested distaste that yellow stripes could come to this.
“Why place me?” Will said indifferently. Resignedly he wondered if this man’s affronted curiosity meant trouble later on.
Evans persisted, “I take it you work for Alec Waggoman’s Barb Ranch?”
“No,” said Will briefly. “I’m renting salt rights here from Half-Moon Ranch.”
Evans’s perspiring face reddened. “Why tell me something which obviously can’t be true?”
For an unbelieving moment Will waited for a smile, a gesture—anything to change the man’s meaning. None came. Outrage filled Will’s stare. His fast-reaching hand caught the blue blouse and gilt buttons over Evans’s chest. A yank brought Evans forward off balance; then Will’s contemptuous shove sent Evans back an unsteady step.
“Don’t call me a liar!” said Will calmly, coldly.
He watched Evans’s hand drop instinctively to the black holster belt and revolver. Then training held Evans motionless in purpling rage.
“Damn you! If you were an officer—”
Will finished curtly, “You’d think twice before questioning my word.”
“We’re escorting a young lady as far as the salt lakes here!” blurted Evans in fury. “She told me Barb Ranch has leased all this land—these salt lakes, too—from a man named José Gallegos, who owns the Gallegos Grant!”
“This is Gallegos grant land,” Will conceded. “Half-Moon has leased it for years. Five days ago I rented salt rights from Half-Moon.”
The shaking fury still held Evans. “The lady’s word satisfies me!”
“Be civil about it next time,” Will advised. He wheeled toward the wagons, leaving Evans there with shredded dignity.
The teamsters had witnessed the clash and stopped work. Their expectant grins turned uncertain as Will told them brusquely, “The lieutenant says Barb Ranch has leased this land. Stop loading until we know where we stand.”
Charley Yuill scratched the flaming red whorls of his jaw stubble and looked askance at the loaded wagons. “A lot of diggin’ there,” said Charley ruefully. “Plenty sweat—Do we have to unload?”
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p; “You might,” Will admitted. He turned to watch Lieutenant Evans striding toward the volcanic cone. Taking out tobacco and papers, Will started a smoke and moved away from his men, held now by a puzzled thought—If this was Barb land, why had Half-Moon rented salt rights to a stranger like himself five days ago?
Will shrugged; he’d get at the truth when the lady arrived. In that mood he watched Evans climbing the lava cone, and guessed ironically the sweating effort would consume some of the man’s wild anger.
Then Will watched keenly while a small detail of troopers came down the long arid slope, following shallow wheel ruts which curved past the lava cone and struck off north.
Ten troopers, corporal, and a sergeant, Will counted. Mauled by the sun, dust flouring their faded blue trousers and blouses, and every man-jack of them, Will guessed, recalling with sweating envy the cool shade behind Roxton barracks, and cooler, foaming beer in Roxton town, a scant mile from the post.
Then amusement stirred in Will’s gray eyes as he noted the lone buckboard the detail was escorting. The driver was a girl, small-built, slender, riding the buckboard’s jolting seat under a man’s incongruously large high-crowned straw sombrero.
The sergeant’s gaze was shuttling from Evans’s waiting horse to the lieutenant’s figure nearing the top of the lava cone. Now the sergeant’s gravelly tones called, “Hyaaalt!…Di’m’nt!…’Tease!”
The buckboard came on to Will before the girl pulled the bay gelding and claybank mare to a halt. Dust covered her denim skirt and jacket and masked her small face with a grayish film. She’d perspired and swiped a jaunty smear around her mouth.
“A big escort, ma’am,” Will drawled, “for one small buckboard and lady.”
She said calmly, “They were coming this far, so I took the short cut to Coronado. I’m carrying mail.”
Will’s eyebrows lifted. He eyed the brown tarp lashed over the buckboard’s load, and guessed, “You’re Miss Barbara Kirby— Making a trip for your father.”
Knowing a little about Miss Barbara Kirby, and more about her father, Will guessed why she flushed as she looped reins on the seat iron and stood up.
He stepped to the wheel and handed her down. Barbara Kirby thanked him and slapped her dusty jacket and skirt with grimy hands. Her oblique glance made Will conscious of the rough whisker bristle and rime of salt brine, stale sweat, and caked dust which made him a completely filthy stranger. Smiling faintly again, he said, “I’d guessed Miss Kirby was a big one, a fire-eater.”
She gave him a direct look. “Where,” she asked coolly, “were you discussing Miss Kirby?”
“Merely overheard the name in Coronado, ma’am,” Will said hastily, vaguely. “I’m Will Lockhart.”
Barbara Kirby’s red underlip had pushed out a little in warning signal. “Where, in Coronado, Mr. Lockhart, did a stranger like you hear my name?”
“I can’t recall,” Will evaded, and his thought was rueful, Should have known better. This Barbara Kirby, challenging under the oversized sombrero, had spirit. Her eyes were a clear blue-green. A ringlet of brown hair at her dusty temple was alive with coppery highlights. Will guessed uncomfortably, They’ve rubbed her father into her too much.
He changed the subject, saying bluntly, “The lieutenant tells me Barb Ranch controls these salt lakes now.”
“Yes.”
“How long has Barb leased here?”
“A week, at least.” Barbara Kirby was surveying him coolly. “Aren’t you digging salt for Barb?”
“For myself,” Will told her. “With Half-Moon’s permission. I meant to sell the salt to Darrah’s store, in Coronado.” He wondered why her look grew guarded. Her quick question was odd, too. “Did Darrah agree to buy from you?”
“We had some talk about it. You’re certain about Barb leasing all this?”
“Quite,” said Barbara Kirby with increasing reserve.
She looked toward the lava cone. Lieutenant Evans had been searching the distance through a small field glass, and now was descending. “Trespassers,” Barbara Kirby said without expression on her small, dusty face, “are never welcome on Barb land. I wish you luck.”
“For the kindly thought, ma’am, thanks,” said Will with faint irony. “I’ll expect luck.”
She said briefly, “You are a stranger,” and turned to her team, plainly dismissing him.
Will walked back to the wagons and told the men tersely, “Seems to be Barb salt we’ve loaded.” Barbara Kirby was leading her team toward the sweet water flow, and Will said, “Charley, help her.”
After that he rolled another smoke and pondered what to do. He’d heard about Barb Ranch and the almost legendary Alec Waggoman who owned Barb. There was more to the mix-up in ownership than he could sort out now, he decided. The wagons were loaded. They should stay in this sun-blasted, desolate spot until Alec Waggoman was contacted. Either that, or unload the thousands of pounds of coarse salt.
Frowning over the problem, Will watched the troopers take horses over to the sweet water. The buckboard pulled away, rounding the lava cone and heading north. Charley Yuill came back to the wagons, grinning.
“A honey, wasn’t she?” Charley asked. “Treated me nicer’n she did yellow legs.”
“It’s your red whiskers, you bobtailed Scotsman,” Will said good-naturedly.
Charley could mimic perfectly his father’s burr. “A bra lassie, mon,” Charley said, and then sobered. “I heard the lieutenant tellin’ her his patrol stopped here. But up there he sighted a party of cowmen heading this way from Coronado. Barb riders probably, he said, and she’d be safe from here on.”
“Barb riders?” said Will alertly. He guessed, “She’ll meet them and tell them we’re here.” His thin smile followed. “We’ll soon know whether we unload or not.”
Barbara Kirby, driving north across the broken, sun-scorched plain, identified eight riders heading for the salt lagoons. They swerved to intercept her, and Barbara pulled her team to a halt.
Silently under the broad straw sombrero she watched them surround the buckboard with a swirl of trampling horses and hot dust.
Every horse was a fine horse, carrying Alec Waggoman’s renowned Barb brand, the curve, the point, and down-slashing barb of a great fishhook. A shark hook, some men bitterly said. Every man was armed. Barb men always carried guns. Barbara’s greenish eyes watched the leader wheel his long-backed gray gelding to the buckboard’s left side and give her a jocular greeting.
“How’s Cousin Barbara today?”
He was Dave Waggoman, Alec Waggoman’s only son, and his covert amusement watched Barbara’s red underlip push out slightly in warning temper. Aloud, Barbara innocently wondered, “Dave, haven’t you more nursemaids than usual?”
One of the men sniggered. Dave’s smile thinned. “Sharp-tongued as ever.”
“It’s the people I meet,” said Barbara calmly. She glanced beyond Dave, at a massive thick-necked man with short dark beard, whose heavy hand was curbing a restless, broad-chested sorrel flecked with foam. “Bullies like Vic Hansbro,” Barbara added coolly.
Chapter Two
Vic Hansbro, the Barb foreman, eyed Barbara with impassive dislike and spat to one side, eloquently. Grins among the Barb men wiped away as Hans-bro’s flinty gaze swung to them.
Dave Waggoman was close-knit and wiry, with a tight mouth having a hint of Barbara’s full red underlip. Dave’s eyes were a hot restless blue, and the restlessness was on Dave’s thin face, too, mirroring his short temper.
Dave asked now, “Where’s your father?”
“He’s busy.”
“Doing what?” asked Dave slyly.
Barbara gathered the reins and her temper. Dave knew well enough what Jubal Kirby was probably doing. So did the other grinning Barb men. Dave saw she meant to drive on and ceased his baiting and said, “I hear wagons are loading salt at the lagoons.”
Reluctantly Barbara nodded. “Isn’t there salt enough for everyone?”
“It’s Barb salt n
ow,” Dave said past tightening lips. He wrenched the gray horse away, temper and aggressiveness setting mulishly on his face. The lot of them departed in another burst of dust.
Barbara drove on, thinking now of the lanky sun-blackened stranger with the brief, ironic grin. He hadn’t seemed to know much about Barb or Dave’s destructive temper. Soon now he would know. Barbara found herself regretting it. Dave had never been much comfort as a cousin. To a stranger trespassing on Barb land, Dave could be grave trouble.
Coronado lay among cedar-dotted foothills west of the great upthrust of Coronado Peak. The smashing heat slacked off in the foothills and the buckboard team trotted more briskly. Barbara sat straighter when the first log and adobe houses of town appeared, and in a few minutes she reined the team off Palace Street into the alley behind the small frame post office.
Aaron Sadler, the postmaster, a graying man with dry zest in keen hazel eyes, stepped out the back door and observed, “Made it with your hair still on, I see.”
Barbara pressed fists into her stiff back, stretching, grimacing, and said, “Troopers from Fort Roxton were patrolling to the salt lagoons. I took the short cut that way with them.”
“I thought,” said Aaron tartly, “you’d growed into sense. Drivin’ where two men was kilt the other day shows I was mistook.” Aaron estimated the tarp-covered load. “Big mail?”
Barbara chuckled. “Something free for everyone. Bags of printed matter from Washington.”
Aaron groaned. “Again?” He helped Barbara down and watched her belt dust from the denim skirt with the big straw sombrero. “Run on now,” Aaron said. “I’ll unload an’ take your team to the feed corral.”
Carrying the straw hat, Barbara walked home, cramped muscles limbering into light, brisk steps. Her father had lived in better homes than the small clapboard house with sun-warped shingles and faded yellow paint. But it was home, the picket fence neatly whitewashed and flower beds a riot of color. Barbara called gaily in the front door, “Hi-a,dad?”
Deserted rooms swallowed her greeting. And he promised not a poker game while I was gone, Barbara remembered in indignant resignation. In her own small room, she sailed the big hat to the figured counterpane, of the small brass bed and glanced in the mirror of the walnut bureau which had been her mother’s. Barbara groaned at the dusty smear around her mouth.
