Collection 1990 - Grub Line Rider (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Wing started to get up, and Gatlin fired the third time, the shot nicking Wing’s ear and smashing a shaving cup, spattering lather. The barber was on his knees in one corner, holding a chair in front of him. The sleeping man had dived through the window, glass and all.

  Men came running, and Jim leaned back against the door. One of the men was Doc, and he saw Sheriff Eaton, and then Lisa tore them aside and ran to him. “Oh, you’re hurt! You’ve been shot! You’ve…!”

  His feet gave away slowly, and he slid down the door to the floor. Wing Cary still sat in the barbershop, his hair half clipped.

  Doc stepped in and glanced at him, then at the barber. “You can’t charge him for it, Tony. You never finished.”

  Grub Line Rider

  I

  There was good grass in these high meadows, Kim Sartain reflected, and it was a wonder they were not in use. Down below in the flatland the cattle looked scrawny and half starved. He had come up a narrow, little-used trail from the level country and was heading across the divide when he ran into the series of green, tree-bordered meadows scattered among the ridges.

  Wind rippled the grass in long waves across the meadow, and the sun lay upon it like a caress. Across the meadow and among the trees he heard a vague sound of falling water, and turned the zebra dun toward it. As he did so, three horsemen rode out of the trees, drawing up sharply when they saw him.

  He rode on, walking the dun, and the three wheeled their mounts and came toward him at a canter. A tall man rode a gray horse in the van. The other two were obviously cowhands, and all wore guns. The tall man had a lean, hard face with a knife scar across his cheek. “You there!” he roared, reining in. “What you doin’ ridin’ here?”

  Kim Sartain drew up, his lithe, trail-hardened body easy in the saddle. “Why, I’m ridin’ through,” he said quietly, “and in no particular hurry. You got this country fenced against travel?”

  “Well, it ain’t no trail!” The big man’s eyes were gray and hostile. “You just turn around and ride back the way you come! The trail goes around through Ryerson.”

  “That’s twenty miles out of my way,” Kim objected, “and this here’s a nice ride. I reckon I’ll keep on the way I’m goin’.”

  The man’s eyes hardened. “Did Monaghan put you up to this?” he demanded. “Well, if he did, it’s time he was taught a lesson. We’ll send you back to him fixed up proper. Take him, boys!”

  The men started, then froze. The six-shooter in Kim’s hand wasn’t a hallucination. “Come on,” Kim invited mildly. “Take me.”

  The men swallowed and kept quietly in the saddle. The tall man’s face grew red with fury. “So? A gunslinger, is it? Two can play at that game! I’ll have Clay Tanner out here before the day is over!”

  Kim Sartain felt his pulse jump. Clay Tanner? Why, the man was an outlaw, a vicious killer, wanted in a dozen places. “Listen, Big Eye,” he said harshly, “I don’t know you and I never heard of Monaghan, but if he dislikes you, that’s one credit for him. Anybody who would hire or have anything to do with the likes of Clay Tanner is a coyote.”

  The man’s face purpled and his eyes turned mean. “I’ll tell Clay that!” he blustered. “He’ll be mighty glad to hear it! That will be all he needs to come after you!”

  Sartain calmly returned his gun to its holster, keeping his eyes on the men before him without hiding his contempt. “If you hombres feel lucky,” he said, “try and drag iron. I’d as soon blast you out of your saddles as not. As for you”—Kim’s eyes turned on the tall man—“you’d best learn now as later how to treat strangers. This country ain’t fenced and, from the look of it, ain’t used. You’ve no right to keep anybody out of here, and, when I want to ride through, I’ll ride through. Get me?”

  One of the hands broke in, his voice edged: “Stranger, after talkin’ that way to Jim Targ, you’d better light a shuck out of this country. He runs it.”

  Kim shoved his hat back on his head and looked from the cowhand to his boss. He was a quiet-mannered young drifter who liked few things better than a fight. Never deliberately picking trouble, he nevertheless had a reckless liking for it and never sidestepped any that came his way.

  “He don’t run me,” he commented cheerfully, “and, personally, I think he’s a mighty small pebble in a mighty big box. He rattles a lot, but for a man who runs this country, he fits mighty loose.”

  Taking out his tobacco, he calmly began to roll a smoke, his half smile daring the men to draw. “Just what,” he asked, “gave you the idea you did run this country? And just who is this Monaghan?”

  Targ’s eyes narrowed. “You know damned well who he is!” he declared angrily. “He’s nothin’ but a two-by-twice would-be cattleman who’s hornin’ in on my range!”

  “Such as this?” Kim waved a hand around him. “I’d say there ain’t been a critter on this in months. What are you tryin’ to do? Claim all the grass in the country?”

  “It’s my grass!” Targ declared belligerently. “Mine! Just because I ain’t built a trail into it yet is no reason why… .”

  “So that’s it.” Sartain studied them thoughtfully. “All right, Targ, you an’ your boys turn around and head right out of here. I think I’ll homestead this piece!”

  “You’ll what?” Targ bellowed. Then he cursed bitterly.

  “Careful, Beetle Puss!” Kim warned, grinning. “Don’t make me pull your ears!”

  With another foul name, Targ’s hand flashed for his gun, but no more had his fist grabbed the butt than he was looking again into the muzzle of Kim’s six-shooter.

  “I’m not anxious to kill you, Targ, so don’t force it on me,” he said quietly.

  The cattleman’s face was gray, realizing his narrow escape. Slowly, yet reluctantly, his hand left his gun.

  “This ain’t over!” Targ declared harshly. “You ride out of here, or we’ll ride you out!”

  As the three drifted away, Kim watched them go, then shrugged. “What the devil, pard,” he said to the dun, “we weren’t really goin’ no place particular. Let’s have a look around and then go see this Monaghan.”

  II

  While the sun was hiding its face behind the western pines, Kim Sartain cantered the dun down into the cup-like valley that held the ranch buildings of the Y7. They were solidly built buildings, and everything looked sharp and clean. It was no rawhide outfit, this one of Tom Monaghan’s. And there was nothing rawhide about the slim, attractive girl with red hair who came out of the ranch house and shaded her eyes at him.

  He drew rein and shoved his hat back. “Ma’am,” he said, “I rode in here huntin’ Tom Monaghan, but I reckon I was huntin’ the wrong person. You’d likely be the boss of any spread you’re on. I always notice,” he added, “that redheaded women are apt to be bossy.”

  “And I notice,” she said sharply, “that drifting, no-good cowhands are apt to be smart. Too smart! Before you ask any questions, we don’t need any hands. Not even top hands, if you call yourself that. If you’re ridin’ the grub line, just sit around until you hear grub call, then light in. We’d feed anybody, stray dogs or no-account saddle bums not barred. My name’s Rusty.”

  Kim grinned at her. “All right, Rusty. I’ll stick around for chuck. Meanwhile, we’d better round up Tom Monaghan, because I want to make him a little deal on some cattle.”

  “You? Buy cattle?” Her voice was scornful. “You’re just a big-talking drifter.” Her eyes flashed at him, but he noticed there was lively curiosity in her blue eyes.

  “Goin’ to need some cows,” he said, curling a leg around the saddle horn. “Aim to homestead up there in the high meadows.”

  The girl had started to turn away, now she stopped and her eyes went wide. “You aim to what?”

  Neither had noticed the man with iron-gray hair who had stopped at the corner of the house. His eyes were riveted on Sartain. “Yes,” he said. “Repeat that again, will you? You plan to homestead up in the mountains?”

  “Uhn-huh, I sure do
.” Kim Sartain looked over at Tom Monaghan and liked what he saw. “I’ve got just sixty dollars in money, a good horse, a rope, and a will. I aim to get three hundred head of cows from you and a couple of horses, two pack mules, and some grub.”

  Rusty opened her mouth to explode, but Tom held up his hand. “And just how, young man, do you propose to pay for all that with sixty dollars?”

  Kim smiled. “Why, Mister Monaghan, I figure I can fatten my stock right fast on that upland grass, sell off enough to pay interest and a down payment on the principal. Next year I could do better. Of course,” he added, “six hundred head of stock would let me make out faster, and that grass up there would handle them, plumb easy. Better, too, if I had somebody to cook for me, and mend my socks. How’s about it, Rusty?”

  “Why, you insufferable, egotistical upstart!”

  “From what you say, I’d guess you’ve been up there in the meadows,” Monaghan said thoughtfully, “but did you see anyone there?”

  “Uhn-huh. Three hombres was waitin’ around. One of them had a scar on his face. I think they called him Jim Targ.”

  Sartain was enjoying himself now. He had seen the girl’s eyes widen at the mention of the men, and especially of Jim Targ. He kept his dark face inscrutable.

  “They didn’t say anything to you?” Monaghan was unbelieving. “Nothing at all?”

  “Oh, yeah. This here Targ, he seemed right put out at my ridin’ through the country. Ordered me to go around by Ryerson. Right about then I started lookin’ that grass over, and sort of made up my mind to stay. He seemed to think you’d sent me up there.”

  “Did you tell him you planned to homestead?”

  “Oh, sure. He didn’t seem to cotton to the idea very much. Mentioned some hombre named Clay Tanner who would run me off.”

  “Tanner is a dangerous killer,” Monaghan told him grimly.

  “Oh, he is? Well, now. Tsk, tsk, tsk. This Targ’s sort of cuttin’ a wide swath, ain’t he?”

  The boardinghouse triangle opened up suddenly with a deafening clangor, and Kim Sartain, suddenly aware that he had not eaten since breakfast, and little of that, slid off his horse. Without waiting for further comment, he led the dun toward the corral and began stripping the saddle.

  “Dad”—Rusty moved toward her father—“is he crazy or are we? Do you suppose he really saw Targ?”

  Tom Monaghan stared at Sartain thoughtfully, noting the two low-slung guns, the careless, easy swing of Kim’s stride. “Rusty, I don’t think he’s crazy. I think maybe Targ is. I’m going to let him have the cows.”

  “Father!” She was aghast. “You wouldn’t! Not three hundred!”

  “Six hundred,” he corrected. “Six hundred can be made to pay. And I think it will be worth it to see what happens. I’ve an idea more happened up there today than we have heard. I think that somebody tried to walk on this man’s toes, and he probably happens to have corns on every one of them.”

  When their meal was finished, Monaghan looked over at Kim, who had had little to say during the supper. “How soon would you want that six hundred head?” He paused. “Next week?”

  The four cowhands looked up, startled, but Kim failed to turn a hair. “Tomorrow at daylight,” Kim said coolly. “I want the nearest cattle you have to the home ranch and the help of your boys. I’m goin’ to push cattle on that grass before noon.”

  Tom Monaghan’s eyes twinkled. “You’re sudden, young fellow, plumb sudden. You know Targ’s riders will be up there, don’t you? He won’t take this.”

  “Targ’s riders,” Sartain said quietly, “will get there about noon or after. I aim to be there first. Incidentally,” he said, “I’ll want some tools to throw together a cabin…a good strong one. I plan to build just west of the water.”

  He turned suddenly toward Rusty, who had also been very quiet. As if she knew he intended speaking to her, she looked up. Her boy’s shirt was open at the neck, and he could see the swell of her bosom under the rough material.

  “Thought about that cookin’ job yet?” he asked. “I sure am fed up on my own cookin’. Why, I’d even marry a cook to get her up there.”

  A round-faced cowhand choked suddenly on a big mouthful of food and had to leave the table. The others were grinning at their plates. Rusty Monaghan’s face went pale, then crimson. “Are you,” she said coolly, “offering me a job, or proposing?”

  “Let’s make it a job first,” Kim said gravely. “I ain’t had none of your cookin’ yet. If you pass the exams, then we can get down to more serious matters.”

  Rusty’s face was white to the lips. “If you think I’d cook for or marry such a pig-headed windbag as you are, you’re wrong. What makes you think I’d marry any broken-down, drifting saddle tramp that comes in here? Who do you think you are, anyway?”

  Kim got up. “The name, ma’am, is Kim Sartain. As to who I am, I’m the hombre you’re goin’ to cook for. I’ll be leavin’ early tomorrow, but I’ll drop back the next day, so you fix me an apple pie. I like lots of fruit, real thick pie, and plenty of juice.”

  Coolly he strolled outside and walked toward the corral, whistling. Tom Monaghan looked at his daughter, smiling, and the hands finished their supper quickly and hurried outside.

  III

  It was daybreak, with the air still crisp, when Rusty opened her eyes suddenly to hear the lowing of cattle, and the shrill Texas yells of the hands, driving cattle. Hurriedly she dressed and stopped on the porch to see the drive lining out for the mountains. Far ahead, her eyes could just pick out a lone horseman, headed toward Gunsight Pass and the mountain meadows.

  Her father came in an hour later, his face serious. He glanced at her quickly. “That boy’s got nerve,” he said. “Furthermore, he’s a hand.”

  “But Dad,” she protested, “they’ll kill him. He’s just a boy, and that Tanner is vicious. I’ve heard about him.”

  Monaghan nodded. “I know, but Baldy tells me this Sartain was segundo for Ward McQueen of the Tumbling K when they had that run-in with rustlers a few months back. According to Baldy, Sartain is hell on wheels with a gun.”

  She was worried despite herself. “Dad, what do you think?”

  He smiled. “Why, honey, if that man is all I think he is, Targ had better light a shuck for Texas, and, as for you, you’d better start bakin’ that apple pie.”

  “Father!” Rusty protested. But her eyes widened a little, and she stepped farther onto the porch, staring after the distant rider.

  Kim Sartain was a rider without illusions. Born and bred in the West, he knew to what extent such a man as Jim Targ could and would go. He knew that with tough, gun-handy riders, he would ordinarily be able to hold all the range he wanted, and that high meadow range was good enough to fight for.

  Sartain knew he was asking for trouble, yet there was something in him that resented being pushed around. He had breathed the free air of a free country too long and had the average American’s fierce resentment of tyranny. Targ’s highhanded manner had got his back up, and his decision had not been a passing fancy. He knew just what he was doing, and no matter what the future held, he was determined to move in on this range and to hold it and fight for it if need be.

  There was no time to waste. Targ might take him lightly, and think his declaration had been merely the loud talk of a disgruntled cowhand, but on the other side the rancher might take him seriously and come riding for trouble. The cattle could come in their own good time, but he intended to be on the ground, and quickly.

  The dun was feeling good and Kim let him stretch out in a fast canter. It was no time at all until he was riding up to the pool by the waterfall. He gave a sigh of relief, for he was the first man on the ground.

  He jumped down, took a hasty drink, and let the dun drink. Next he picked the bench for his cabin, and put down the axe he had brought with him. Baldy had told him there was a saddle trail that came up the opposite side of the mountain and skirted among the cliffs to end near this pool. Leaving the horse, Kim w
alked toward it.

  Yet before he had gone more than three steps, he heard a quick step behind him. He started to turn, but a slashing blow with a six-gun barrel clipped him on the skull. He staggered and started to fall, glimpsed the hazy outlines of his attacker, and struck out. The blow landed solidly, and then something clipped him again, and he fell over into the grass. The earth crumbled beneath him, and he tumbled, over and over, hitting a thick clump of greasewood growing out of the cliff, then hanging up in some manzanita.

  The sound of crashing in the brush below him was the first thing he remembered. He was aware that he must have had his eyes open and been half-conscious for some time. His head throbbed abominably, and, when he tried to move his leg, it seemed stiff and clumsy. He lay still, recalling what had happened.

  He remembered the blows he had taken, and then falling. Below him he heard more thrashing in the brush. Then a voice called: “Must have crawled off, Tanner! He’s not down here!”

  Somebody swore, and aware of his predicament Kim held himself rigid, waiting for them to go away. Obviously he was suspended in the clump of manzanita somewhere on the side of the cliff. Above him, he heard the lowing of cattle. The herd had arrived then. What of the boys with it?

  It was a long time before the searchers finally went away and he could move. When he could, he got a firm grip on the root of the manzanita and then turned himself easily. His leg was bloody, but seemed unbroken. It was tangled in the brush, however, and his pants were torn. Carefully he felt for his guns. One of them remained in its holster. The other was gone.

  Working with infinite care and as quietly as possible, he lowered himself down the steep face of the rocky bluff, using brush and projections until finally he was standing upright on the ground below. A few minutes’ search beneath where he had hung in the brush disclosed his other pistol, hanging in the top of a mountain mahogany.