Dead Man's Range

by Paul Durst

  ‘He came back to find the man who killed Clint,’ Anne told him evenly. ‘But whether you believe that or not, I want you to find him. And I can tell you where to look.’

  Dalmas raised his eyebrows. ‘Where?’

  ‘Take a look at this.’ Anne handed the paper to him, unfolding it. ‘This was stuffed inside the hat. Under the sweatband to make it fit.’

  The sheriff read the order blank, then frowned at her. ‘I ain’t very good at riddles,’ he said irritably. ‘What’s this supposed to mean, if anythin’?’

  ‘That the man who shot my steers last night was Allan Vicker, wearing Carmody’s hat. I thought there was something funny going on when I stopped to see Booth Anson and he told me.…’ She went on to describe her visit to the Anvil ranch in detail, laying emphasis on Anson’s sudden attempt to be friendly while relaying Carmody’s alleged threats against her. And she finished by mentioning the blood under the junipers and her fears as to what it might indicate.

  When she stopped speaking Dalmas smiled as a man might smile at a child who had told an imaginative tale. ‘Now hold on, Anne – that’s askin’ me to believe an awful lot. You ain’t got a lot to go on except guesswork, and I think you’re just lettin’ yourself get excited. I thought you’d be glad Anson finally showed some signs of gettin’ friendly. Lord knows you’ve complained enough about him actin’ the other way.’

  ‘Anson actin’ friendly toward anybody would be enough to make me suspicious,’ Will Henstridge said.

  The sheriff ignored the remark and pointed to the hat. ‘Anne, you say Vicker took this from Carmody and wore it last night. What’s to prove it?’

  ‘Why – that mail order blank, of course.’

  ‘And what would keep Carmody from takin’ a pencil and fillin’ out an old mail order blank and puttin’ it under his sweatband to throw suspicion somewhere else in case he lost his hat?’

  ‘Because – because that would be silly!’ She realized the remark was inane as soon as she said it, and the lawman’s smile made her angry at herself as well as him. ‘Well, it would!’ she added stubbornly.

  Dalmas laughed and handed the hat back to her, saying, ‘If you want me to help you, Anne, you’d better offer better proof than female intuition. As a lawman I’ve got to deal in facts, not guesses. I can’t go traipsin’ around the county on a wild goose chase just because you think somethin’s wrong.’

  ‘But Carmody might…!’

  ‘Carmody’s another matter. If you want to swear out a warrant against him for shootin’ your cattle, then I’ll do my best to find him for you.’

  Anne bit her lip, holding back angry tears. And the knowledge that she was about to cry made her angrier still. Already Dalmas was looking at her with the patient expression of a man who knows he will have a woman’s tears to deal with. She glanced quickly at Will Henstridge. The rancher’s expression was sympathetic, but she realized he could do nothing and it increased her feeling of helplessness.

  She swung her gaze on Dalmas. ‘All right! Get your warrant. Only make it out for Allan Vicker!’

  Dalmas’s smile evaporated and was replaced by a look of consternation. ‘Why – I can’t arrest Vicker on hearsay evidence, Anne,’ he hedged. ‘I got to have proof.’

  She shook the hat and the piece of paper in his face and said angrily, ‘Proof? Here’s your proof!’

  The sheriff shook his head. ‘I’m afraid it ain’t good enough to stand up in a court of law.’

  Will Henstridge said firmly, ‘Maybe you’d better leave that up to judge and jury, Mose. Anne wants you to swear out a warrant. You ain’t got no choice.’

  Dalmas looked uncomfortable. With a faint smile he said pleadingly, ‘Aw, now, Will, I think you’re lettin’ a woman’s tears.…’

  ‘And I’m thinkin’ you’re afraid to set foot on Anvil with a warrant!’ the rancher said angrily. ‘I didn’t figure I’d have to bring this up, Mose, but folks in this county are gettin’ just a little fed up at the way you have been pussyfootin’ around them Anvil roughnecks lately. Folks are still wonderin’ what ever become of Myers and Stalton and’ – he turned to Anne – ‘what was the names of them other two little outfits just east of Anson’s?’

  ‘You mean Sands and Brewer?’

  ‘Yeah, Sands and Brewer.’ He faced the sheriff again. ‘Anson has taken over quite a bit of territory in the past ten years. And the way he done it don’t smell just right to everybody. What’s more, he’s still pushin’. He’s pushin’ Anne, here, and you damn well know it! The only reason she ain’t gone the same way as Sands and Brewer and the rest of ’em is that maybe even Anson balks at killin’ a woman. But that ain’t to mention what might have been the cause of Clint Merriweather’s death. The point is, Dalmas, it’s beginnin’ to look like you’re scared stiff of Booth Anson. There’s talk of formin’ a Cattleman’s Association here in the county – matter of fact, that’s what I’m doin’ in town today, if you want to know it. Now if you ain’t got guts enough to act like a sheriff, then by God come election this fall the association’ll put somebody in your place who has.’

  Fifteen minutes later Anne came out of the sheriff’s office followed by Dalmas. The lawman’s face was ashen beneath his deep tan. He touched his hat to her and said a curt good morning and strode across the street toward the livery stable, his lips pressed grimly together. A white piece of paper protruded from his shirt pocket and he fingered it uneasily as he turned in at Buckley’s shouting for the man to saddle his horse.

  Anne watched him go and felt a little sorry for him. Then she turned and walked into Ranson’s store to buy a sack of coffee she’d forgotten on her last trip. Gabe Ranson was handing it to her when he said suddenly, ‘Say, I just remembered somethin’. That young feller who went to work for you was askin’ about a pair of spurs the other day. I forgot exactly whether he wanted to know but you can tell him I can get ’em for him if he still wants ’em. I happen to run across an old catalogue with ’em in yesterday and found I’d ordered the same kind for Caleb a few years back. But you tell him, will you?’

  ‘All right, I’ll tell him,’ Anne said absently.

  CHAPTER 10

  It was still night when Carmody wakened but the shaft of moonlight through the window had shifted to the east wall and told him the moon was low in the west. He judged it was close to morning and lay awake for a while, wondering what had wakened him.

  Some of the pain had gone out of his chest and now there was only a bruised feeling and a slight burning sensation along the length of the wound. He was pleasantly surprised to find that the sleep had left him feeling much stronger and wondered if he might have underestimated his recuperative powers.

  With deliberate slowness he swung his feet to the floor and sat, head bowed, on the edge of the bed until the giddiness had passed. Then he got to his feet and, still moving slowly on unsteady legs, crossed to the window and peered out. It was then that he saw what had awakened him.

  A rider was unsaddling by moonlight down at the corral and when he had finished he crawled through the bars and came at a fast walk toward the house. It was Vicker, Carmody realized, and he noticed that the man was hatless. Drawing back into the shadow of the window as the rider came up the walk, Carmody watched him slow his approach and step cautiously up to the veranda.

  ‘Booth!’ the man called quietly. ‘Booth – it’s me, Vicker!’

  There was a sound of movement as if someone had been awakened from sleep and a pair of boots thudded to the floor. ‘Vicker, that you? Come on in. I fell asleep on this damn couch waitin’ for you to come back. What happened; everythin’ go all right?’

  Vicker was out of sight now beneath the roof of the veranda, but Carmody heard him cross to the window to talk to the man inside. ‘By God I ain’t gonna try that again! I choused about forty head of their stock right up in front of the house and started to pistol ’em when the old man cut loose with a damn buffalo gun and like to scared the spit out of me. Then the gal opened up wit
h a Winchester from the house and her third and fourth shot took the hat clean off my head – just like somebody’d reached up and grabbed it. Hell, an inch lower and she’d’ve had me!’

  ‘Aw, quit your bellyachin,’ Anson growled. ‘You make it sound like you’d been in a gunfight instead of tryin’ to scare an old man and a woman. Did you kill any of their beef?’

  ‘Yeah, I got five. But by damn they like to got me, too. The next time.…’

  ‘Did you get close enough for them to see who you was supposed to be, that’s what I want to know?’

  ‘Hell, yes. And anyway they ain’t gonna have no doubt about who it was when they find Carmody’s hat there in the mornin’.’

  Anson chuckled appreciatively. ‘No, they sure ain’t. Well, we’ll hit ’em again tomorrow night and maybe the next. By that time they ought to be ready to believe Carmody’s got it in for them. Well, you had a pretty good night – you better sleep in in the morning’.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Vicker mumbled sarcastically as he left the porch.

  Carmody stood for a while digesting what he had heard, frowning. Anne had lost five steers she could ill afford; and this had been but a token raid. But that was relatively unimportant. What worried him most was her helplessness; she and Caleb alone trying to stand up to Anson. Then he smiled grimly. From Vicker’s account they had made a pretty good showing for themselves. Yet no matter how valiantly they fought they could never expect to hold the place against twenty armed men when the showdown came. The house would be a flaming death trap once it caught fire. He realized he could not wait the full five days he had counted on. As soon as he could drag himself into a saddle he would have to leave to warn them. Not only to warn them, but also the very fact of his leaving would spoil Anson’s plan. It would leave him without a dead Carmody to dump behind to be blamed for what had happened.

  He heard Anson’s footsteps on the stairs and realized the man was coming up to bed. Moving on unsteady legs he managed to regain his bed just as the lamplight loomed bright on the stairs. He lay back and closed his eyes, feigning sleep. Anson came to the top of the stairs and halted, peering into the room. Carmody could tell he was there, could hear him breathing, could see the brightness of the lamp through his eyelids. Presently Anson moved away down the hall and he heard him place the lamp on something solid in another room and opened his eyes.

  The light from the other room threw Anson’s shadow large in the hall. The man undressed; Carmody watching the shadow saw him take off his gunbelt and heard the clank of steel-loaded leather as the man hung it on the iron bedstead. In a few minutes a heavy snore drifted through the upper rooms.

  Carmody lay awake for a while longer, thinking. Evidently Anson considered Carmody sufficiently disabled to dispense with a guard. This aroused a burning temptation as Carmody speculated his chances of leaving while the man slept. He raised himself up and glanced through the door, his heartbeat quickening at the thought. The snores grew into a measured rhythm as Anson relaxed into deep sleep.

  Carmody shook his head despairingly and sank back on the bed. Even if Anson did not waken, he doubted if he had sufficient strength to make his way down the stairs, across the yard to the corral, saddle a horse and get away. Not yet. In another night or two, maybe. But not yet.

  When he awoke again it was full daylight and someone was shaking him gently. He opened his eyes to find an elderly negro standing beside the bed watching him with large brown eyes and proffering a plate of food. ‘You feel strong enough to eat sumpin’, suh?’ he asked gently in a rich, deep voice.

  Carmody started to say automatically that he felt strong enough to eat a horse, then checked himself.

  I-I think so,’ he said feebly. ‘Can you help me to sit up – I’m still pretty weak.’

  The man nodded in a kindly way and put the plate on the chair, then he came back and helped Carmody to sit up, his hands as careful and gentle as a woman’s. ‘You sho’ lost a pow’ful lot of blood, suh,’ he said, handing Carmody the plate.

  The negro made no sign of leaving but stood patiently waiting for Carmody to finish, the large eyes following each mouthful of food to its destination with obvious solicitude. Carmody forced himself to eat slowly, giving the impression of toying with his food.

  He was surprised at how well he had slept, how well he felt. His chest still pained him and the bruised feeling seemed to have spread around his whole rib cage, leaving him stiff and sore when he moved the fork to his mouth. But the pain itself was nothing; it was his strength that was important and he was overjoyed to see that it was fast returning.

  He turned to the negro, speaking slowly to continue the impression of weakness. ‘How long have you worked for Anson?’

  The man glanced at the door uneasily then wagged his grizzled head. ‘Too long, suh,’ he said, with a faint smile.

  Carmody continued eating thoughtfully. The old man was obviously the cook and general flunky, but there was something odd about his being here. There was too much refinement about him for a common ranch cook, too much of an air of gentility. ‘You don’t come from this part of the country,’ Carmody said.

  ‘No, suh. Ah’s from Vicksburg, Mississippi.’

  ‘You don’t like Texas?’

  The old man grinned apologetically. ‘Beggin’ yo’ pardon, suh – kase you a Texan – no suh. Ah’d lak t’ be back whar I kin see the old rivuh at sunset.’ He sighed and stared into the distance. ‘But hit doan lok lake Wash evuh goan back.’

  Carmody looked up from his plate. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Mistuh Booth – he woan let me.’

  ‘Won’t let you? Hell, he don’t own you.’

  ‘He say he do. Mistuh Booth say he kill me if’n Ah try to run away. An’ Ah know he’d do it, too.’

  Carmody was turning the thing swiftly in his mind while Wash was speaking. There was a chance that Wash might have been sent here by Anson to sound him out, but it was a slim chance. The old man’s story sounded genuine enough and it tallied with his opinion of Anson. He said suddenly, ‘Wash, can you saddle a horse?’

  Wash looked at him a moment, suspiciously, his eyes moving uneasily to the door and back again. ‘What you schemin’ to do suh? They’s watchin’ me all the time. Ah’s afraid to try…’

  ‘Not you, Wash. Me,’ Carmody said, keeping his voice low.

  ‘You, suh? You ain’ in no fitten shape to ride no.…’

  ‘Look,’ Carmody said. He swung his legs out of bed and stood up. Giddiness seized him and he tottered for a minute. Then it passed and he grinned at the old negro staring goggle-eyed. ‘I’m still a little weak, but I’ve been playin’ possum. I’m not as bad as I’ve let them think, because as soon as I look well enough you know what Anson aims to do.’

  Wash nodded and Carmody went on. ‘I’m strong enough to ride once I get in the saddle, but’ – he lifted his arms slowly, wincing at the pain in his chest – ‘I don’t think I could manage to lift a saddle for a day or two. And by that time it might be too late. Now, if you could saddle one for me.…’

  Wash stared at the plate he was holding and Carmody noticed the hands were shaking with emotion. Slowly the old eyes raised to meet his own. ‘Ah’ll do it, suh. Fo’ you an’ Missus Merriweather an’ her chile – ah’ll git yo’ a hoss.’

  Carmody clapped him on the shoulder and said earnestly, ‘Wash, how’d you like to go back to Mississipi?’

  ‘Miss…?’ The old man’s voice broke, his eyes lighting with hope. ‘Lawdy, suh – you aint joshing po’ ole Wash is you?’

  Carmody shook his head. ‘No, Wash, I ain’t joshin’.’

  ‘B-but Mistuh Booth … he woan let me.…’

  ‘Mister Booth ain’t gonna be around to stop you. When this is all over I’m buyin’ you a railroad ticket to Vicksburg.’

  Tears welled up in the old eyes and Wash raised a finger to brush them away, shaking his head. ‘Vicksburg!’ he murmured. ‘Ah din’ think Ah’d ebber cross dat ole ribber again. Ah-Ah just cain’t believe
it!’

  Carmody crossed to the window and peered cautiously out to see that no one was below who might happen to look up. Then he swept the sprawling outbuildings with his gaze and called, ‘Wash, come here. See that clump of live oak just beyond the corral?’

  ‘Yassuh.’

  ‘All right, here’s what I want you to do. Sometime between dusk and moonrise tonight you saddle a horse and tie him in that clump. And be sure you tie him with a rope, not the reins. I don’t want him to spook and slip his bridle if there’s any shootin’.’

  ‘Shootin’? Lawd, I hope they’s no shootin’, suh – an’ you wifout no gun.’

  ‘Plenty of guns downstairs in Anson’s study when the time comes,’ Carmody said, leaving the window. ‘What time do they generally eat supper?’

  ‘Long ’bout dusk.’

  ‘So it’ll be dark when they finish.’

  Wash mused. ‘Purty dahk. Some eats quicker’n others.’

  ‘Does Anson eat with his crew?’

  ‘Most times – when he ain’t got visitors.’

  ‘You have to be there?’

  ‘Yassuh. Ah waits the table.’

  Carmody frowned. ‘That ain’t so good. I’d counted on you slipping away while they ate. But if you’ve got to be there it won’t give you time to get that horse staked out.’

  ‘Ah’ll manage, suh. They usually sits around talkin’ or playin’ cards when they’s finished supper.’

  Wash scurried down the stairs and Carmody heard him muttering as he passed Anson, ‘Yassuh, that gen’lmun up yonder he’s so weak he couldn’t feed hisse’f an’ Ah had to spoon hit for him.’

  Carmody, back in bed now, grinned at Wash’s lie and blessed him for his quick thinking. Anson said, ‘Still weak, huh? I’d better take a look.’ He lumbered up the stairs and into the room, eying Carmody speculatively from the doorway. Carmody turned listlessly on the bed and stared at him.