Where the Long Grass Blows (1976)

by L'amour, Louis

  "I want to be here ... where you are."

  She flushed. "Bill ... please. You mustn't talk that way. There's too much ... well, there are things happening that you don't understand. I don't want you killed."

  "My kind don't kill very easy, Dixie, and I've got plans. I'll need more men, but I have two of the best."

  Walt Pogue rode toward them. "Just seen Mabry. Is he workin' with you? I need a couple of good men and I'll pay top wages."

  "No, thanks. I've come to rep for my brand."

  Pogue's head bent forward like an old range bull about to charge. "Did you say ... your brand?"

  "That's right," Canavan's face was innocent. "The Gallow's Frame."

  The rancher reined his horse around so sharply that Canavan winced at the effect on the horse's mouth. "Who said you could run cattle on this range?"

  Reynolds had come up in time to overhear. He looked as astonished and irritated as Pogue.

  "It's government range," Canavan replied quietly, "and one man has as much right as the next."

  "You'll find some difference of opinion on that!"

  Pogue said angrily. "This range is overcrowded as it is!"

  "Tell that to Star Levitt."

  They glared at him, yet neither spoke. The subject of Star Levitt was obviously not one they were prepared to cope with at the moment. It was Reynolds who finally replied. "He'll be dealt with. And from what I hear somebody is doing some fancy work with a runnin' iron."

  Bill Canavan hooked his leg around the saddle horn. "Reynolds," he said gently, "you and Pogue better take a good, long look at those altered brands before you jump anybody. The first thing you will see is that whoever did it didn't give a damn whether you knew it or not. He's throwin' it right in your face, just begging you to start something."

  "I'll start something!" Reynolds flared. "Wait until this roundup is over."

  "You throwin' that at me?" Pogue demanded.

  Fury was building up in the man, and as much of frustration as anger. Too much was happening, and he wanted to strike out in all directions, in any direction.

  "You two ought to get down off your horses and fight it out," Canavan suggested. "Just get it out of your systems. Then maybe you can tackle your big problem. Or are you both afraid of Levitt?

  He's the one who's movin' in on you, and he doesn't even bother to bring his own cows, he just rebrands yours."

  Canavan chuckled and Reynolds's face flamed.

  "We might get together, Walt an' me, just long enough to get shut of you!"

  "Take first things first," Canavan said quietly.

  "You two are your own worst enemies, and next to yourselves is Star Levitt and his crowd.

  "As for me, if you want some good advice, just leave me alone. I came here to stay. I've got cattle on this range and I intend to keep them there. I didn't ride in here by chance. I came because I knew you were going to kill each other off. I didn't bargain on Levitt doing it for me, but he will ... if you boys don't beat him to it. But when you're all gone, I'll be here. If you want to fight, just start the ball rolling. But when you do, you'd better dig in for a long scrap because you'll get it, and I cut my teeth on range wars.

  If you want trouble, just cut loose your dogs!"

  He dropped his leg, kicked his toe back into the stirrup, turned the Appaloosa and rode away.

  Pogue glared at Mabry. "What's happening, Mabry?

  You've always been a good man."

  "You listen to him, Walt. That's a mucho malo hombre, if you'll take it from me. He's got no reason to like either of you, but he's got other things on his mind now. If you want to know where I stand, it's right beside him, me and Roily Burt"

  "Burt?" Pogue's face hardened. "Where is that murderin' son?"

  Mabry looked around, his hand on the cantle of his saddle. "Pogue, why don't you find out why two of your men were gunnin' for him? I'll bet a paint pony you don't know! And Charlie, why don't you find out why none of your boys were in town to stand beside him? Why don't you ask your nephew why he sent him into town in the first place?"

  "What's that? What're you gettin at?"

  Reynolds demanded.

  Mabry was riding away, and the older man stared after him. And for the first time he felt doubt as well as fear. What was happening? What did he mean by suggesting that he ask his nephew Mabry rode to where Canavan sat his horse.

  "Gave "em something to worry over," he said cheerfully, and explained.

  "That should do it. Their ears will be buzzing for a week ... if they live that long." He gestured toward the cattle. "Some nice stock here, Mabry."

  "How many head have you got out there?" Mabry asked.

  "Not many. Couple of dozen, I'd guess. I wanted them to see the brand, that's all."

  "What do we do now, Bill? Do we just wait?"

  Canavan considered that. So far all had gone about as expected, yet he knew that a bullet ... just one ... could end it all. He was playing in a deadly game, but for high stakes.

  "We'll sit tight now." He hesitated a moment and then said, "Mabry, I've got them cold-decked.

  I've got them whipped before they start, if I can just get out of this with a whole skin. I can't tell you what I've done, because I don't want to even think about it for fear they'll find out"

  "What happens if they do? When they do?"

  "There's only one thing they can do. They'll have to kill me. There won't be one of them against me, Mabry, it will be everyone of them."

  "Do you think Pogue and Reynolds can get through this roundup without a fight?"

  "I doubt it. They're both too bullheaded, and there's hard feelings among their riders. Somebody will blow his top, and when he does there will be shooting."

  Bill Canavan looked across the valley watching the familiar scene and feeling some of the old excitement within him. This was the roundup, usually the hardest work any cowhand had, although not necessarily the longest hours. His own longest hours had been on cattle drives, holding cattle after a stampede when he had already spent hours rounding them up.

  Usually the hands cussed the roundup, but they loved it, too. Hot and dusty, filled with danger from kicking hoofs and menacing horns or plunging horses, but filled with good fellowship, too, and comradely fun.

  He watched the waving sea of horns where the gather was coming together. Every once in a while they would start to move out for somewhere, but a watching cowhand would turn them back again, and at such times there would be a ripple of movement along the sea of horns.

  At the branding pens the sharp line of demarcation was broken by the business of the day, but otherwise the CR and the Box n held themselves apart.

  Because of this, or from wariness of what might happen, the W riders did likewise.

  Star Levitt, astride a magnificent white horse, was everywhere to be seen. For a time he was at the branding pens watching the action there, and then he was circling the holding herd where the cattle waited to be branded. Sighting Canavan and Mabry, he rode over to where they sat their horses, watching.

  Canavan saw Mabry's face as Levitt started toward them. There was a cold, watchful quality about it, the sort of expression a man might have when he spotted a rattler approaching his bed at night.

  "How are you, Canavan?" There was no indication in his manner that he had ever experienced the events that had taken place in the Bit and Bridle.

  He was clean shaven as always, and as always he was immaculate. The dust of the roundup seemed not to have touched him.

  Mabry, glancing at the two men, was struck by a striking similarity between them. Yet there was a subtle difference that drew him toward Canavan.

  Both were big men, yet Levitt was both taller and heavier, and in the faces of both men there was strength and a certain assurance that set them apart.

  Canavan's manner carried a certain casual confidence that Levitt also had, but in a more brittle-seeming style than the rock-hard look that Canavan wore.

  They were men shaped
by nature to be enemies, two strong men with their faces turned in the same direction, yet guided by wholly different viewpoints and ruled by different standards. The one ruthless and relentless, prepared to take any advantage, and to stop at nothing. The other, hard, toughened by range wars and the brutally hard work of the western country, accustomed to the rough-handed fair play of the plains, yet equally relentless. It would be something to see, Mabry thought, if ever they came together in physical combat.

  "Nice stock," Canavan commented casually. "You got many cows here?"

  "Quite a few. I hear you're running the Gallow's Frame brand?"

  "That's right."

  "Strange that I hadn't heard of any cattle coming into the country lately. Did you pick yours up on the range?"

  At many a time and in many a place, such a question could have led to shooting, but after his equally insulting comments in the saloon, they were not important. These two knew their time was coming and neither was in a hurry. Levitt was completely, superbly confident, while Canavan had the assurance of a man who has faced many antagonists under many circumstances and always emerged a winner.

  Or usually. "No, I didn't need to. Your pattern suits you, mine suits me. My cattle were already here."

  The remark drew the response he expected.

  "That's impossible! I know every brand that runs on this range, and there were only four until I moved in."

  Canavan smiled enigmatically, knowing both the smile and the manner would irritate Levitt.

  "Star," he said, "you're a man who figures he's right smart, a whole lot smarter than other folks round and about.

  And you might be really smart if you didn't believe other people were so dumb.

  "A man with your viewpoint doesn't have a chance to win, for that reason. You believe you're so much smarter than the opposition. You think everybody else but you is stupid as a month-old calf, so you ride into everything sure that everything will turn out right for you. You've the same fatal flaw in your character as most crooks, because they are incurable optimists.

  "You came into this country playing it mighty big and strong. You were going to be the boss. You saw Pogue and Reynolds and you took them for easy marks. You seem to have had something on the Venables, but like so many crooks you overlooked the obvious.

  "Let me tell you something, although you'll not believe it. You'd lost this fight before you ever took a hand in the game. If you were really as smart as you believe you are, you'd turn that horse of yours around and ride right out of here and never even look back."

  Levitt smiled, but for the first time the smile was forced. Suddenly he was uneasy, yet it was only for the moment. "I may not be as clever as I think I am, Canavan, but no four-bit cowhand is going to outsmart me."

  Canavan shrugged. "Mabry, let's ride down toward the stock pens. I want to see what Reynolds and Pogue think of those altered brands."

  They rode away and Star Levitt looked after them, holding his smile. Yet there was a thin grain of worry in him now.

  Had he overlooked something? Had he made a mistake?

  Chapter XII

  Canavan rode away, Mabry beside.

  Mabry stole a glance at Canavan. "You sure turned the knife in him. What you want him to do? Start something?"

  "He's a planner and a plotter, Mabry. He works out a careful plan, but he's got too much temper for it He'll get impatient, and maybe he'll do things he hadn't planned on. And if he does, he'll make mistakes."

  He drew up and turned in the saddle to look back. Levitt was gone. "I wish I knew what he has on the Venables." He scowled. "You don't suppose she really likes him, do you?"

  Mabry shrugged. "Sometimes I can guess what a steer will do, and I've even outguessed a wild bronc or two, but keep me away from women. I never could read the sign right, and every time I think I've got one figured, she crosses me up."

  Despite the growing sense of trouble, the roundup was proceeding at a good pace. Yet it was like no roundup either Canavan or Mabry had experienced.

  The men were tense, less inclined to joke as the days went on, and conversation was at a minimum. Several times Canavan saw Dixie, but she avoided him.

  Tom Venable was there, sharing the work like any other cowhand, and proving himself to be not only ready and willing, but fairly knowing about cattle. It was obvious the hands liked him. He asked no favors but stepped up and did his share of the work and even a little more. From the first day, however, he had pitched right in and had worked hard, driving himself to keep up the pace set by the older, more knowledgeable hands.

  He was a man to like, a man who could make a place for himself anywhere, so what was it with Levitt and him? Or her?

  The days continued hot and dusty. Tempers grew short, but despite that fact there were no serious arguments or fights such as can occur on any roundup crewand on some outfits are almost the order of the day. It seemed as if nobody wished to give offense, as if everybody knew something was about to happen and must be guarded against.

  The next day, the roundup moved to the vicinity of Soledad, and there Canavan got his break. He had been trying to find a chance to talk to Dixie, and suddenly he saw it. She had been talking to Levitt, and she turned away from him and rode into the cottonwoods that bordered the W ranch.

  Canavan started after her and, looking around, saw himself watched by Dahl. His hard, lupine face set in grim, watchful lines was staring after him. Mabry was very much in the center of things, and working hard. Voyle had pulled out to saddle a fresh horse.

  Dixie had gone but a few yards into the woods when he overtook her. For the first time, he noted how thin and pale of face she had become, and was shocked by the change.

  "Dixie? Wait ... I must talk to you."

  She drew up and waited, although she kept her face averted and seemed in no mood for conversation.

  She made no comment as he came alongside, keeping her eyes straight ahead. "Leaving so soon?"

  She nodded. "Star said the men were becoming quite rough in their language and would feel freer if I went in."

  "I've been wanting to talk to you. You've been avoiding me."

  She turned and looked straight at him then.

  "Yes, Bill, I have been. We must not see each other again. I am going to marry Star and seeing you simply won't do."

  "You don't love him." The statement was flat and simple, but she avoided his gaze and offered no comment.

  Then suddenly she said, "I've got to go, Bill.

  Star insisted I leave right away."

  Canavan's eyes hardened. "Do you take orders from him? What is this, anyway? Are you a slave?"

  Her face flushed and she was about to make an angry reply when the sense of her earlier remark hit him. He caught her wrist. "Dixie, did you say Star insisted? That you leave now?"

  "Yes." She was astonished at his sudden vehemence.

  "He said-was Her remark trailed off to nothing, for Bill Canavan had turned sharply in his saddle to look back toward the roundup grounds. Kerb Dahl had finished his cigarette. Voyle was fumbling with his saddle girth, and for the first time Canavan realized Voyle was carrying a rifle on his saddle within inches of his hands.

  Canavan's eyes searched for the white horse and found it beyond the herd.

  He turned back to Dixie. "He's right. You ride for home and don't stop this side of there. No matter what happens, keep going."

  He wheeled his horse and cantered back toward the herd, taking a course that would keep him clear of Dahl and Voyle, hoping he would be in time. A small herd of cattle driven by Streeter and Hanson was drifting down toward the pens.

  He drew up on the edge of the branding area just as Mabry straightened up to get the kinks out of his back. He had to call out three times before Mabry heard him and walked over. "Mabry, let's get out of here! It's coming! Now!"

  Mabry wasted no time in talking. His horse was tied to the pens close at hand, and he was beside him in a half-dozen strides. He jerked the tie loose and swung into
the saddle.

  "Let's get out of here," Canavan said. "I don't know how or just where, but-was At that moment, Emmett Chubb, sitting his horse, spoke irritably to Riggs, a young Box n rider. "You just naturally dumb or do ya have to try?"

  Riggs looked around sharply. "What's that?" Riggs was puzzled. He was a tough youngster, hardworking and no nonsense about him, and Chubb's remark came as a complete surprise. Riggs was working hard while Chubb had merely lounged in his saddle, doing nothing.

  "What did you say?"

  "Seems to me," Chubb drawled, "that you Box n boys done your best work before the roundup, slappin" brands on everything in sight!"

  Hot and tired, Riggs was in no mood to be cautious or even to think. He had been insulted, and so had his outfit, something no self-respecting hand would allow.

  "I said you were a bunch of cow thieves!" Chubb repeated.

  "You're a liar!" Riggs shouted and, fast as Chubb was, he was only a hair faster than the angry young cowpuncher. Riggs's gun was coming up when Chubb's shot smashed him over the belt buckle.

  Riggs was knocked back two steps by the force of the bullet and his gun kept lifting, his blue eyes blazing with fury even as he died.

  It was the signal for which they had waited, and in an instant the branding pens were thundering with gunfire. Hot stabs of flame penetrated the dust. Men screamed, cried out and went down, groveling in the dust, struggling in their last bitter gasp to get off a shot, at least one shot.

  Mabry came around the corner of the pens on a dead run. Canavan gestured toward the timber.

  "It's their fight." he yelled. "Let them have it!"

  "Look!" Mabry was pointing.

  Streeter and Hanson, on the ground behind their horses, were shooting across the saddles, opening up on Pogue and Reynolds. Voyle was dodging through scattering cattle, six-gun in hand, trying for a shot at someone. From the dust came a scream of agony, then a bullet cut the scream off short "Pogue's own men turned on him!" Mabry yelled angrily. "Did you see that?"

  "We'd better light a shuck. I think they intended to nail us, too."

  They had been off at a dead run, and now their horses broke into the trees and they pulled up to look back. The crash and thunder of the guns had ceased.