Bounty Guns

by Short, Luke;

  Hauling himself to his feet, he saw Ball racing for the jail. He ran to meet him, fury in his white face.

  “Damn you, Ball, come with me!”

  He hauled Ball around by the coat and shoved him into the jail. Upstairs, Jeff paused beside the cell, pointing at Ben Bolling’s body. He was breathing hard, as if he were going to choke before he could speak.

  “Look at that!” he ground out. “You’re sheriff, Ball! Look at it!” He was almost screaming with fury. A dozen men, one or two of them Three-B riders, formed a loose circle around Ball.

  “I see it,” Ball said weakly. “Who done it?”

  Jeff said savagely, “Who done it! Why, damn you, Woodring done it! Who else could?”

  Ball only stared stupidly at him. Some townsman who had been in the street said, “I thought Woodring was out of shells?”

  Jeff wheeled and pointed to the three shells he had dropped on the floor. “Does that look like he was out of shells? Hell, his gun was only empty. He come up here, loaded up in front of Ben, and then killed him! He was in such a hurry to get the butcherin’ job over that he dropped these.” Something broke inside Jeff Bolling then. He lunged at Ball, grabbing his coat in his fist, and shoved him against the bars. “Why, you murderin’, hammer-headed son, you let him do it! You told him to do it!”

  Ball gagged out a denial, but Jeff Bolling seemed out of his mind. He threw Ball to the floor and kicked him. Ball came up fighting, only to be clubbed behind the ear by one of the Three B hands. A kind of madness was in these men, an unreasoning lust for violence and a victim, and Jeff Bolling’s fury seemed to touch it off. Ball climbed to his feet, and Jeff knocked him down again. That time Ball tried to get up and couldn’t. Jeff hauled him to his feet and hit him in the face and then threw him to the floor again.

  “You’re through, Ball,” he said thickly. “Get out of here before I shoot you.”

  Ball headed for the stairs, and Jeff kicked him down them. In his wrecked office Ball came unsteadily to his feet. There were townsmen in the room, men Ball had known all his life, and he looked at them appealingly.

  “Throw this crew out,” he demanded. “I need help.”

  But the sympathy tonight was all with Bolling. Nobody knew who started the fight, and nobody took the trouble to ask. All they knew was that Ben Bolling was dead, murdered in his cell, and they assumed that Tip Woodring had killed him, thus starting the fight. Ball’s appeal for help met with a cold reception.

  Somebody said, “You’re a hell of a sheriff, Ball! That’s all I got to say!”

  Jeff swung Ball around, nearly yanking him off his feet. “I’ll tell you what you’re goin’ to do, Ball. You’re goin’ to deputize us to organize a posse that will hunt that killer down and hang him to the highest cottonwood in Vermilion county! Start doin’ it.”

  Ball looked around the crowd again. Jeff Bolling hit him again, knocking him into the desk.

  Ball said quietly, “Be damned to the lot of you! Tip Woodring never shot Bolling.”

  Ball went down under a dozen blows, and mercifully he did not feel them. They left him there lying on the floor in a pool of blood, while they milled out into the street, running for horses to join the posse and the manhunt. Hell with law!

  When Ball opened his eyes he was lying with his cheek across the floor. Slowly the room came into focus, and there, straight ahead of him under the big filing-cabinet, was a gun. Ball knew only the need for that gun, and he tried to crawl toward it. But before he reached it he blacked out.

  It was Lynn and Lucy Shields who found Ball, and with Anna’s help took him to their rooms and called Dr. Pendexter. And while Doc worked on Ball, cleaning his cuts and bandaging his ribs and setting his arm, which had been broken in the fall downstairs, he told Lynn what he had heard of this night’s happenings.

  “They’re mad,” Lynn said softly when Doc was finished talking. “Tip Woodring wouldn’t kill a man that way.”

  Dr. Pendexter straightened up. “Young lady,” he said, “you can’t live around hate for years without taking a little of it to yourself. That’s what this town did. Tonight they’ve seen a murder and been told the name of the man who did it. They’ll hunt him down and hang him, and a year later they won’t know why they did it.”

  “Hang him?” Lynn said softly.

  “Yes, ma’am. If they find him. And they’ll find him, unless he’s a mighty smart man.”

  “He is mighty smart.”

  “But not smart enough to stay away from this town. Not smart enough that, once he come into it, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. And not smart enough, once he opened his mouth, not to ask help from these people. Tonight, they found out they hated him because he was a better man than they are. Well, he’ll have to prove it. Personally, I wouldn’t want the job.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Caution told Tip to clear out of this country. High in the peaks country, hunkered down behind a boulder for warmth against the night wind, he counted his chances. He had a dozen matches, no gun, no food, no blankets, no ammunition. Around him, he knew, these men were beating the country. If they didn’t turn him up in two days their anger would abate. Impersonal anger can seldom stand inconvenience, Tip knew, and these people had no personal interest in hunting him down. He thought back over the evening, and it was like a nightmare. The first of it, the raid by the Bollings—an attempt to free Ben, he supposed—was to be expected. But the posse, lynch-mad and in a killing mood. Of course, the word had got out that he had killed Ben Bolling. But why did they care? It was one of those times when people, caught with a lust for killing, never stopped to ask questions—only acted. In that short while all the work he had done here, all the impartial justice he had tried to deal out to both sides, had been wiped out. It was worse than if it had never existed, for now Jeff Bolling, with the sympathy of the town with him, would make short work of the Shieldses.

  He shivered there in the night, thinking of Buck and Pate and Lucy. Buck would hear of it, size up the temper of the town and the Bollings, and be warned, he hoped. And meanwhile Cam Shields was loose. Strangely enough, Tip felt no anger against Cam Shields. He had lived up to his stature, which Tip had always known was small. Cam Shields would have to be hunted down and shot, killed. He was like a mad dog who communicates his madness to other dogs, until there is no end to the harm that one isolated act had started.

  From down the slope he heard the report of a gunshot drifting across the wind. He listened, a kind of sadness taking hold of him. Up there and over the peaks there was a peace of sorts. Down here was red murder and misery and work and danger, and maybe death. But down here lay salvation for him, and peace for all his friends. Lynn Mayfell, troubled and helpless and stubborn; Lucy and Buck and Pate, needing help now more than ever—and Ball. They were all down there, a part of his life now.

  He turned up the collar of his coat and walked over to his horse. After staking out his strange pony with the lariat he found slung over the horn, he scratched the gray’s ears for a few moments, trying to make up for the grueling treatment he had given him. Afterward he came back to his rock, lay down, and looked up at the stars. He was going to stay, he decided. He was going to do it all over again, and this time he would make it stick; and bitterness had its lonely way with him.

  At dawn he was down in the timber again, traveling toward the Bridle Bit. His pace was slow, for he was weaponless, and he took advantage of each eminence to scan the country below him. Once, traveling a gully that was unavoidable, he pulled into the brush at the sound of riders. Four men passed him, silent, gray-faced with exhaustion. They were so sleepy that they rode over his tracks without noticing them.

  He worked deeper into the timber, feeling as if he were walking into a trap. Presently he came out on the tip of a mesa which overlooked the Three B. Tip could see its smoking ruins, with nothing standing save the stone chimney of the big house. Was that Cam, too?

  Sick at heart, Tip turned away from the sight of it, and rode on through the
timber, keeping to the ridges. It was midmorning before he was on Bridle Bit land, and he knew that now he would have to be careful, for they would expect him here. With an infinite caution, stopping to listen minutes at a time, he worked his way to the edge of the timber that flanked the Bridle Bit.

  And what he saw there at the Bridle Bit confounded him. There were thirty horsemen or so gathered around the yard. Some of the men were dismounted, others were still in the saddle. Lucy and Buck, on the step, were listening to a man talking to them from horseback. Tip thought it was Joerns, over at the bank. He could pick out Jeff Bolling, listening peaceably enough, and Baylor and some of the more substantial citizens. And Lynn was leaning against the house next to Lucy, taking it all in.

  It was Joerns’s idea, so Jeff let him talk. They had overtaken Lynn Mayfell and Lucy on the ride out, and there wasn’t much said until they arrived at the Bridle Bit. When Buck saw this mob and identified some of its members, he leaned his rifle against the jamb and came to the door to meet them. His glance at Lucy was quizzical and relieved, but it was Jeff Bolling he watched, hoping to get a clue from his expression.

  Joerns, dressed in solid black, was a jowly man who took the weight of his affairs with a gravity that became them. Buck was surprised to find a man who usually kept aloof from the feud and its people in the vanguard of this mob. What was it, a posse?

  Joerns pulled up and said, “Good morning,” gravely, and Buck returned his greeting. Lucy dismounted, as did Lynn, and came over to him.

  “Buck, where is Cam?” Joerns began.

  “He’s been kicked off this place,” Buck said quietly. “You’d know that, Joerns, if you took the trouble to ask.”

  “And Woodring?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Lucy plucked warningly at his sleeve and Buck looked at her, puzzled.

  Joerns said gravely, “You haven’t heard, I suppose, that Woodring murdered Ben Bolling in his cell last night and then escaped the posse that took out after him?”

  Buck shook his head. “I don’t believe it.”

  “What you believe about the facts doesn’t change them,” Joerns said dryly. “You were a friend of his, weren’t you?”

  “I was and I still am,” Buck said, truculence coming into his voice. He looked from Joerns to Baylor to the smug, baleful face of Jeff Bolling, and then asked, “What are you doin’, arrestin’ me because I knew him?”

  “Not that,” Joerns said. He shifted in his saddle. “Buck, some of us in this town have never liked this Bolling-Shields feud. We’ve tolerated it for a long time, principally because we didn’t care to risk our necks in taking sides. But when a man is murdered in our own jail by a bullying deputy sheriff, it’s time we took a stand.”

  “I’ve thought that for a long time,” Buck said, looking at Bolling.

  “You don’t have to think it any more,” Joerns said sharply. “That’s what we’re telling you now. This feud is going to stop.” He paused, looking sternly at Buck. “Those aren’t just words, either. We’re going to stop it.”

  “How?”

  “You’re going to move out of this county, Buck—you and all your family, with all your belongings.”

  Buck stared at him in disbelief. Buck was always slow to anger, and he realized immediately that he must be slower than ever now.

  “You can’t do that, Joerns,” he said calmly. “I’m a property holder in this county, entitled to the protection of the law. If I remember correct, it was my old man that brought you in here, Joerns. I’ve got more right here than you have.”

  “We’re not talking about right, Buck. You’ve forfeited whatever right you earned. You’ve got to get out.”

  “But why us?” Buck asked, his voice a shade harder. “Why not the Bollings?”

  “Because your man in the sheriff’s office murdered Ben Bolling last night,” Joerns said calmly. “Because you or your men burned the Three B to the ground last night. And finally, because this town would rather have the Bollings here than the Shieldses and their hired lawmen! Is that reason enough?”

  “Not near enough,” Buck said. “You think I’m goin’ to lose this spread because you’ve finally taken sides in Hagen?”

  “You won’t lose the spread,” Joerns said. “This place will be put up for auction by the bank, and you’ll get the money from the sale. We’re not asking you to lose your stake here, Buck. We’re just telling you to move it—telling you, understand?”

  “Nobody will buy this place without a title And I’m not signin’ any deed, Joerns.”

  “I think you are,” Joerns said calmly. “You remember that marshal who came in here and was killed, Buck? Well, maybe you didn’t know it, but you killed him. I am one witness to the murder, and Baylor is the other, and we’ve got enough men here to take you to the U.S. Commissioner.”

  Lynn spoke up then, and her voice was low with contempt. “For anybody who claims to be a man, Mr. Joerns, that’s the lowest, most cowardly, and despicable thing a man can do!”

  Joerns flushed and looked sharply at Lynn. “It may be cowardly, Miss Stevens, but it’s sense.”

  “Why don’t you put them both out of the county then?” Lynn cried hotly. “If one’s guilty, so is the other!”

  “I’ve told you,” Joerns said angrily. “Maybe there wasn’t any choice before, but when Buck joined up with this crooked lawman, that’s a little too much. At least the Bollings kept their fight to themselves and away from us. The Shieldses tried to corrupt our law, frame Ben Bolling with a murder he couldn’t possibly have committed, and then, when they saw he was about to be taken away from them, they shot him. That’s enough, we say. They’re going!”

  He glared angrily at Lynn, as if trying to frighten her into silence. Then he looked at Buck. “Well, what will it be, Buck? Will you go or will you stand trial for the murder of a marshal?”

  “If you think by makin’ me move Lucy and Pate out of this county and give up the spread, you’ll settle this fight, you’re loco!” Buck said grimly. “I still got a horse, and I still got some money to buy shells!”

  “That’s your risk,” Joerns said. “But maybe you’ll think twice when I tell you that the moment you set foot over the county line, there’ll be a reward of twenty-five hundred dollars on your head, on Tip Woodring’s, and Cam Shields’s, too!”

  Buck took a step toward Joerns, and Lucy caught him by the arm. He looked at her as if he didn’t recognize her and then he listened to her say, “Come in the house a minute, Buck.”

  Lucy and Lynn and Buck went inside and shut the door. Buck looked at Lucy and said thickly, “Hell, I’ll stand trial before I’ll give up this place!”

  “Buck, think a minute,” Lucy pleaded. “The Shieldses have got a bad name now, in the commissioner’s office. And if two respectable men like Joerns and Baylor swear you killed that marshal, you’ll hang!”

  “I don’t give a damn!”

  “Yes, you do, Buck,” Lynn said gently. “As long as you’re alive, you can get the place back. But not in jail or dead.”

  It was the hardest thing Buck Shields ever faced, Lynn knew. Everything in him protested against it, but Lynn thought he would give in. And he did, after a moment of furious thought that made his face ugly with anger.

  “All right,” he said grimly, briefly.

  Joerns was called in. He had the deed already prepared, and Buck signed it without a word.

  It was Lucy who spoke to Joerns. “How much time have we?”

  “Till sundown. We’ll help you, and we’ll escort you to the county line.” He walked to the door and called, “Give a hand here, you men. You’d better scare up a couple of spring wagons, too.”

  “Ours will be enough,” Lucy said quietly. “You see, we’ll be back, Joerns. We’ll travel light, because we’ll be back.”

  Buck looked at her gratefully and turned away. Lucy went into the house, refusing the help of anyone except Lynn. Pate, coming back from Dockstaders’ where he had been sent to get Luc
y, was told the news and he accepted it, taking his cue from Buck. Some of the posse left for town, but more than a dozen men loafed around the wagon shed, waiting to escort the Shieldses to the county line.

  They were ready by midmorning with one spring wagon holding their bedding, clothes, food, some grain, and a tarp.

  Buck came in and looked around the house, speculating on what more they needed. His face was set in a grim cast, patience masking whatever he thought.

  Lynn came up to him and said, “Have you an extra horse, Buck?”

  “Lots of ’em,” Buck said. “But we aren’t goin’ your way, Lynn.”

  “I’m going yours,” Lynn said simply. “Will I be in the way, or can I help, Buck?”

  Buck frowned at her. “You mean, you want to go with us?”

  “I do.” She smiled. “I think I know exactly what you’re going to do, Buck. You’ll camp just over the line, and you won’t move from there until you get this place back. Am I right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then you can use me. Will you take me?”

  Buck smiled and said simply, “It’ll be tough, Lynn.”

  “Of course it will. But no tougher on me than on you and Lucy and Pate.” She laughed shakily. “I’ve got my fighting blood up, Buck. I can understand how Tip felt now. I wish I had his temper.”

  Buck grinned and went out. Lynn wanted to ask him what he thought of Tip’s chances, and where he thought Tip was. But she understood that Buck was thinking the same things, content to believe that Tip was innocent of any crime until he admitted it himself.

  They started off before noon on their slow trek to the county line. Pate went on ahead with the loose horses. Buck drove the wagon, and Lucy and Lynn rode on either side of it. They went south to the end of the park and took the road west. Buck didn’t even look back at the place, and neither did Lucy. Lynn knew that neither of them were admitting to themselves that the Bridle Bit was lost to them. By all rights, Lynn thought, they should have been glad to leave it, with its history of bloodshed and sadness and violence. But it was home, something that had been fought for and would be fought for again.