Novel 1954 - Utah Blaine (As Jim Mayo) (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “Not bad,” he said, grinning. “My old lady couldn’t’ve done better.”

  “Didn’t know you were married, Timm.”

  “I’m not no more. Amy died…cholera.”

  “Too bad.”

  Timm said nothing and Utah Blaine got to his feet. “Will you be all right? I want to hunt some herbs that may help those wounds.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Blaine started for the door and then looked back. Timm was staring after him. “Utah,” his voice shook a little, “you—you—think we’ll ever get back? You think—” His voice trailed weakly off.

  “We’ll get back, Timm,” Blaine promised, “you’ll be back on the old job again.”

  “Reckon I’d rather work for you,” Timm said quietly. “I reckon I would.”

  It was an hour before Utah returned. In his arms he had a stack of herbs used by the Indians to doctor wounds and—he stopped. “Timm?”

  There was no reply. Blaine dropped his load and rushed forward. He needed only a glance.

  Timm was dead. He had died quietly, smiling a little.

  Utah Blaine looked down at him. “I’d like to have had you work with me. You were a good man, Timm. A mighty good man.”

  Wearily, he gathered up the guns and ammunition. And now he was alone…Alone. And somewhere out there they were hunting him. Hunting him like a wild animal.

  Chapter 13

  *

  DESPITE HER WORRY over Utah Blaine, Angie had not returned to her small home. So she was standing in the hotel with Rals Forbes when they saw Rink Witter come in. Two men rode with him, and two more were across their saddles. One of the riding men was wounded. Her face stiff, Angie looked down upon the little cavalcade.

  Forbes turned abruptly. “I’m going down there. I’m going to find out what happened.”

  Angie followed him, walking quickly. Slowly, the street began to fill. Nevers was in town this morning as was Lee Fox. Lud Fuller was also there, his face somber. Fuller never talked these days.

  Ben Otten came down the street and stopped beside Nevers. He looked up at Rink, feeling the cruelty in that dark, leather-like face. “No,” Witter said, “we didn’t get Blaine. He got away an’ took Timm with him, but I think Timm was bad hurt. We trailed ’em over Whiterock Mesa but lost ’em near Rock Creek. He was headed south toward the Mazatzals, but he couldn’t have gone that far, not with Timm hurt an’ his horses tired.”

  “You lost some men.”

  Rink Witter turned to Forbes, who made the statement. “Huntin’ Blaine ain’t no picnic,” he said harshly. “They killed two men for me an’ one horse. An’ Wardlaw’s wounded.”

  Rink swung to the ground. “Utah’s an Injun on the trail,” he said flatly, stating a fact. “He don’t leave no more trail ’n wolf.”

  “You think you got Timm?” It was Fox who asked the question.

  Witter nodded. “Figure so.”

  “Then Blaine’s alone,” Nevers said, “he’ll quit.”

  Lud Fuller stirred. “He won’t quit. I seen him fight Ortmann. He don’t know what the word means.”

  Nevers glared at Fuller. Then he turned and moved toward the hotel. “Come in, Rink. We’ll make talk.”

  Forbes turned and looked at Angie. “What can we do?” he said. “It’s plain hell to want to do something and have your hands tied. My press is coming around, but I doubt if I’ll get more than one paper off before they bust it up again.”

  “I wish the governor would write.”

  “He probably threw the paper away.”

  Mary Blake came down the street, switching her leg with a quirt. She stopped, looking from one to the other. “He’s out there,” she said. “I’m going looking for him.”

  “You’d better leave him alone,” Angie replied shortly. “That’s all he’d need would be a woman leading Rink Witter to him.”

  “I’ll find him. And Rink Witter won’t trail me, either. I can lose him.”

  “Coker and now Timm. He’s all alone out there.”

  “It’s not your fight,” Mary said quietly. “There’s no reason for you to worry.”

  Angie made no reply, turning slightly to look at Forbes. She looked down the street. A tall man in black was walking up from the station. He carried a carpetbag in his right hand. He paused, then came on over to where they stood. He was a gray-haired man with sharp, quick eyes.

  “How do you do?” he said. “I am George Padjen, attorney-at-law. May I ask to whom I am speaking?”

  “I’m Ralston Forbes.” Forbes’s eyes smiled. “I was the local editor until my press was smashed up.” Suddenly his interest quickened. “You’re not from the governor?”

  “No,” the man smiled, “I’m not. I was told that I should be very careful about who I talked to, but your name was on the favorable list.”

  “May I introduce Miss Kinyon? And Miss Blake?”

  Padjen removed his hat with a flourish, then looked at Forbes. “Where’s Utah Blaine? Is he on the 46?”

  Briefly, Forbes outlined the events of the past few days: the fight with Ortmann, the attack on Blaine at the ranch, the escape and the killing of Kelsey and then of Coker and the probable killing of Timm.

  “But you said Coker was still alive?” Padjen objected.

  Forbes smiled wryly. “As a matter of fact, he is. However, the man hasn’t a chance. The doctor has been expecting him to die ever since he was shot. Somehow he has hung on. But as far as Utah goes, Coker might as well be dead. He’s out of the running.”

  “My news seems to be important then,” Padjen said quietly. “Before Joe Neal returned here he came to me and made a will. If anything happened to him the ranch was to go to Blaine.”

  “What?” Forbes’ shout turned heads. “You’re telling the truth?”

  “I am.”

  Forbes grabbed his arm. “Come on then!” Quickly he rushed him down to the newspaper office. “This,” he said, “I’ll set up and run off by hand!”

  With both girls helping and Padjen explaining further details, Rals Forbes stripped off his coat and went to work. Quickly, he ran off twenty handbills. They carried the story in short, concise sentences following a scarehead in heavy black type.

  !!!JOE NEAL WILLS 46 TO BLAINE!!!

  According to a will filed for probate in El Paso, Joe Neal willed the 46 Connected with all cattle, horses and appurtenances thereto to Utah Blaine, to take effect immediately upon his death. THIS DEFINITELY THROWS OUT ANY CLAIMS TO THIS RANGE ADVANCED BY THE ASSOCIATED RANCHERS WHO HAVE ATTACKED AND KILLED HANDS FROM THE 46 AND B-BAR RANCHES.

  According to the terms of the will Blaine may never sell, lease, or yield up any rights or privileges of the 46 to any of the ranchers now in the valley. THE LAST SHADOW OF A CLAIM MADE BY THESE RANCHERS IS NOW REMOVED AND IF THEY PERSIST IN THESE MURDEROUS ATTACKS THEY WILL BE OUTLAWS AND MUST BE TREATED AS SUCH!

  Padjen grinned and looked up at Forbes. “If you tack these up you’d better barricade yourself or leave town!”

  Forbes nodded ruefully. “I’ve been thinking of that, believe me, I have!” Then he looked up at them and picked up some handbills. “Hell, I asked for it,” he said, “here goes!”

  Padjen’s eyes twinkled. He shifted his gun to the front and picked up a few of the remaining handbills and walked out.

  Angie moved slowly from the building and stood on the street. She knew now what would happen. Or she believed she did. For what else could happen? Nevers had gone too far to back up now. So had Fox. They had killed men, killed them unjustly; killed them in a wild grab for range. Now the last vestige of right had been taken from them. They had no shadow of legality to their claims, yet had they ever had such a right where the B-Bar was concerned? And now the 46 Connected was definitely Blaine’s.

  Somewhere out there in the hills Utah was wandering now, perhaps wounded, certainly hungry. Could Mary Blake reach him without leading Witter to Blaine? No, not even if she knew right where to go. She was not skillful enough. But this w
as not true of Angie. She did know…she turned abruptly and walked swiftly down the street.

  *

  FAR BACK IN the hills near the caves, Utah Blaine finished his burial of Timm. Over the grave he said a few simple words, and then he gathered a few flowers and planted them near the crude cross he had made.

  He stepped back and looked at the grave. “See you, Timm!” He turned and walked to his horse. Mounting, with Timm’s horse behind him, he started southwest down Pine Canyon. For the first time in his life he was going on the hunt. He was going to seek out three men and kill them.

  Blaine rode swiftly. When he had covered five miles, he shifted horses and rode Timm’s gelding. In this manner he pushed on through the night, holding his gait steady, and averaging a good eight to ten miles an hour over all kinds of country. At daybreak he released Timm’s horse, retaining only the old-timer’s guns. He now had two rifles, a shotgun and three pistols—all loaded.

  Yet he needed food. It had been days since he had enjoyed a decent meal and Angie’s cabin was only a few miles north. He turned the lineback north along the river trail. Not more than an hour after daybreak he rode up to the cabin. The first thing he saw was the thin trail of smoke from the kitchen chimney. The second was the saddled horse standing at the corral gate.

  Riding his own horse into the pines behind the cabin, he tied it there and then, with the shotgun in his hands, he worked his way forward under the trees. When he reached the big sycamore under which he and Angie had talked, he paused and made a careful survey of all the ground in sight. He found no tracks but those of the girl and her horse. Warily, he looked over the terrain beyond the river. Only then did he walk up to the door. He opened it and stepped inside.

  Angie was dressed for riding and she was working swiftly. Only one plate was on the table.

  “Got a couple of more eggs, Angie?”

  She turned swiftly, her eyes large with shock. “Utah! Oh, thank God ! You’re here! You’re all right!”

  “Don’t tell me you were worried?” He looked at her somberly. “Were you leaving?”

  “To look for you. Utah, Neal’s will has been probated in El Paso. He left the ranch to you. Everything to you.”

  Utah Blaine stared at her. “To me? Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Quickly, as she put on more eggs, she explained. She gave him the details of the will as she had them from Padjen; she told him what Forbes had done.

  Then, “Utah, where’s Timm?”

  “I buried him at sundown. He was wounded in the Whiterock fight. Have you seen Coker?”

  She told him about Rip Coker’s desperate fight in town, his killing of Clell Miller and two other men. “And he’s still living. He hasn’t been conscious for days, but he’s alive. The doctor says it isn’t reasonable, that he’s shot full of holes, and he gave him up days ago—but he still lives.”

  “You were coming to tell me about Neal’s will?” He studied her over the rim of his coffee cup. “What else?”

  “Nothing, except—except—Mary’s been worried about you, Utah. She was going to ride out.” She hesitated. “Are you in love with her, Utah?”

  “With Mary?” He was surprised. Angie’s back was turned to him and he could not see her face. “Now whatever gave you an idea like that?”

  She put eggs and ham on his plate, then a stack of toast. He ate and forgot everything in the wonderful taste of food. For several minutes he said nothing. When he did look up, he grinned, a little ashamed. “Gosh, I was sure hungry! Say, is there a razor in the house?”

  “Dad’s razor is here. I’ve kept a few of his things. His razor, his gun—” She went to get it, and while he shaved, she talked.

  She watched the razor scrape the lather and thick whiskers from his jaw. It was a long time since she had seen a man shave. She noted how broad his shoulders were. Hurriedly she got up and walked to the door, looking carefully down the trail, then across the river.

  “What will they do, Utah? Will they keep after you?”

  He turned and looked at her, holding the razor in his hand. For an instant their eyes met and she looked away quickly, flushing and feeling an unaccountable pounding in her breast.

  Her question was forgotten. Slowly, he walked over and stood behind her. “Angie…” He took hold of her shoulder with his left hand. “Angie, I think…” She turned, her eyes large, dark and frightened. His hand slipped down to her waist and drew her to him, and then he bent and kissed her parted lips. She gave a little muffled gasp and clutched him tightly. Neither of them heard the sound of the approaching horse. It was the step on the porch that startled them apart. As one person they turned toward the door.

  Mary Blake stood there, her hat in her hand, her face flushed from the wind. Her eyes went from Utah to Angie and her nostrils widened a little. “Well, Angie,” she said with an edge in her tone, “I see you got here first!”

  “Why—why, I just came home! I—”

  “You’d look better,” Mary said, “if you’d wipe the lather off your chin, Angie. Or have you taken to shaving?”

  “Oh!” Angie gasped and ran for a mirror.

  Utah chuckled suddenly. “Hello, Mary. It’s rather a surprise seeing you here.”

  “So I gathered,” Mary said dryly. “And if you don’t hurry and get out of here you’ll get another surprise. Rink Witter isn’t far behind me.”

  Chapter 14

  *

  RINK IS COMING?”

  “Yes, but Nevers will be here first, I think. Rink turned from the trail to do a little scouting. Wardlaw is with him, and Lud Fuller.”

  “And with Nevers?”

  “A half-dozen of his riders.”

  Utah Blaine turned and picked up his hat. “Both of you stay here. I’ll manage all right.”

  He walked outside and around the house. When he reached the stallion, he untied it and led the horse through the trees to the house. The horse had been cropping grass and now he let him drink, but only a little.

  When he saw the dust cloud he swung into the saddle and rode down to the ford of the river. The river here was some twenty yards wide and, at the ford, about stirrup deep. He stopped in a grove of trees leaving his horse back out of range in a sheltered hollow.

  He saw the riders swing around the bend of the river and come toward him. He let them come while he sat on a rock and smoked a cigarette. When the riders were three hundred yards off he propped his knee on another boulder and lifted the rifle, getting his elbow well under the barrel. Nestling his cheek against the barrel he aimed at Nevers. His intention was not to kill the man. Yet at the moment he was supremely indifferent. If the horse bobbed at the wrong time—he fired.

  His intention had been to clip Nevers’ ear, and he had held Nevers under his sights as the distance closed. Nevers jerked and clapped a hand to his head and Blaine heard his cry of anguish and could see the blood streaming down the side of his face.

  Instantly, there was a hail of bullets and men scattered. Blaine began to fire. One man was diving for cover and Utah shot him through the legs. His second put Nevers’ horse down and Nevers was pinned beneath it. Then Blaine fired again, kicking dirt into Nevers’ eyes.

  “Want to die, Nevers? You bring other men out to fight your dirty battles! How do you like it?”

  He fired again, deliberately missing but putting the shot close. “Get dust in your eyes, Nevers? This’ll be better!” Blaine fired again, his bullet striking into the sand square in front of Nevers’ face. Sand spat into the rancher’s eyes.

  Blaine waited an instant, then called out, “The rest of you stay out of this an’ you won’t get hurt. One of you pull that man in and fix up his leg! Go ahead! I won’t shoot!”

  A cowhand ran out and picked up the wounded man and started back. Blaine held his fire. He heard Nevers yell from the ground. “Go get him, you fools!! Get after him!”

  Utah laughed. “I never saw you come after me, Nevers! Not without plenty of help!” He threw another shot close to Never
s. “I’ll kill the first man who shows himself on the bank of this stream!”

  He took his time, his eyes roving restlessly to prevent a flanking movement. He had a hunch none of the hands were too anxious to come across the river under fire. After all, Nevers had gunmen to do his killing—men who were getting paid warrior’s wages. Anyway, probably few of them disliked to see their boss pinned down and scared—and Nevers was scared.

  Without help he could not escape from the dead horse, and Utah Blaine could kill him any time he wished.

  “You had Timm killed,” Blaine said conversationally. “You had Coker shot up, an’ you’ve hired murderers to get me. You were one of the lynchers who tried to hang Joe Neal an’ by all rights I should shoot you full of holes.”

  Nevers did not speak. He lay still. Now he was aware that Blaine did not intend to kill him. Frightened as he had at first been, he was remembering that not far behind him were Rink Witter and his killers. They would hear the shooting and would know what to do.

  Blaine fired again, and then he faded back into the brush and ran to his stallion. Keeping the lineback to soft sand where he made no noise, he circled swiftly and raced the horse for the river. Crossing it, he headed for the trail to head off Witter. He was coming down the mountain through the trees when suddenly he heard a yell. Not two hundred yards away, fanning across the hillside were a dozen riders! It needed only a glance to tell him that these were Fox and his men.

  Snapping a quick shot, Utah wheeled the stallion and plunged down the trail. He was just in time to intercept Witter—but this wasn’t the way he had planned it. The surprise was complete. He charged down the mountain and hit the little cavalcade at full speed. They had no chance to turn or avoid him: his stallion was heavier and had the advantage of speed. With his bridle reins around his arm, Blaine grabbed a six-shooter and blasted.

  A man screamed and threw up his arms and then Blaine hit him. Horses snorted and there was a wild scramble that was swamped with dust. Through the group the lineback plunged and Blaine had a glimpse of Rink Witter’s contorted face as the gunman clawed for a pistol. Blaine swung at the face with the barrel of his six-gun, but the blow was wide and the back of his fist smashed into the seamed, leathery face. Witter was knocked sprawling, and then the lineback was past and heading for the river.