Collection 1997 - End Of The Drive (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  She looked at him, surprised. “How do you mean?”

  He tossed a stick on the fire. “How long has this rustling been going on? They say some five thousand cattle have disappeared. I would say that is about ten percent of what there is on the range around here, yet who has actually seen any rustlers?

  “Who has seen any cattle being moved? Who has heard of any being shipped? Why were there always cattle on the lower ranges, and none up in the canyons?”

  “Why?” Remy watched him, curious and alert.

  He looked up at her, and his eyes, she noted, were a strange darkish green. He ran his fingers through his hair. “Why? Because the rustlers have taken cattle slowly, carefully, a few at a time, and when they have taken them they have moved other cattle down from the canyons where they could be seen, so no suspicion would be aroused.”

  He looked at her with a wry smile. “Five thousand cattle are a lot of cattle! And they are gone. Gone like shadows or a bunch of ghosts. You think that doesn’t take planning?”

  “You know who is behind it?”

  “No. But now that people are accusing me, I aim to find out!”

  “We haven’t lost many, Dowd says.”

  Finn nodded. “Want to know why? Because that foreman of yours is a right restless hombre. He keeps moving around. He’s up in every canyon and draw on your range. He knows it like the back of his hand. They don’t dare take any chances with him. Whoever is behind this rustling doesn’t aim to get caught. He means to go on, handling as many cows as he can without suspicion.”

  “You’re a strange man,” Remy said suddenly.

  He turned his head and looked at her, the firelight dancing and flickering on his cheek. “Why?”

  “Oh, living here all alone. Having all those books, and yet fighting like you did down there in the street.”

  He shrugged. “It’s not so strange. Many men who fight also read. As for living alone, it’s better that way.” His face darkened, and he got to his feet. “It saves trouble. I don’t like killing.”

  “Have you killed so many?” Somehow she didn’t believe so. Somehow it didn’t seem possible.

  “No, but there’s one I don’t want to kill,” he said. “That’s one reason I’m back here. That’s one reason I’ll stay here unless I have to come out.”

  Remy arose and stood facing him. How tall he was! He stood over her, and looked down, and for an instant their eyes met. She felt hot color rising over her face, and his hands lifted as if to take her by the arms. She stood very still, and her knees were trembling. Suddenly the room seemed to tilt, and she swayed, her eyes wide and dark.

  He dropped his hands abruptly and went around the chairs toward the porch. “You sleep in there.” He jerked a thumb toward the wide bed. “I’ll stay out there with the horses for a while, then sleep in here by the fire.”

  He was gone. Remy stared after him, her lips parted, her heart beating fast. She knew with an awful lost and empty feeling that if he had taken hold of her at that moment he could have done as he pleased with her. She passed a hand over her brow, and hurried into the other room, closing the door.

  CHAPTER 3

  PIERCE LOGAN HAD made his decision. A long conference with Sonntag and Frank Salter had convinced him that the time had come to make a definite move.

  He disliked definite moves, yet had planned for them if it became necessary. His way had always been the careful way, to weed the range of cattle by taking a few here and a few there, until his own wealth grew, and the others were weakened. Then, bit by bit, to take what he wanted.

  All in all the Rawhide outfit were making more money than they had ever made, but none of them were content. They wanted a lot of money quick, and they wanted action.

  “If they don’t git what they want, Pierce,” Sonntag said, “they’ll begin to drift. I know every man jack of ’em! They don’t like none o’ this piecin’ along.”

  “Dowd’s gettin’ suspicious,” Salter said. His eyes were cold gray. Pierce Logan had an idea that the old guerrilla didn’t like him. “We got t’ git rid of Dowd!”

  “That’s been seen to,” Sonntag said. “Any day now.”

  Pierce Logan had returned to Laird filled with disquiet and anger at his plans deliberately being altered, but it was an anger that slowly seeped away as a plan began to evolve in his mind. A plan whereby he could come out with most of the profits himself. If those fools insisted on starting an out-and-out war, he would appear to be an innocent bystander. His cowhands were men known on the range. None of them were rustlers. Logan had been careful to see to that, and to keep the rustlers off his ranch except when they were getting some of his own cattle. When that happened, he managed to see that his hands were busy elsewhere.

  Several of the men who worked for him, like Nick James and Bob Hunter, had ridden for McInnis or Judge Collins. They were known to be capable, trustworthy men. Carefully, Pierce Logan examined his own position. His meetings with Sonntag had always been secret, and there was no way anyone could connect him with the rustling.

  Sonntag had done something about Texas Dowd. From what he had said, the foreman of the Lazy K would die very soon. When Dowd was out of the picture, his most formidable enemy would be removed. And in the meanwhile, he had the problem of pinning decisive evidence on Mahone.

  So far as anyone knew he had avoided Rawhide. His connection with those ranchers was unknown. In any plans to move against the rustlers, as ranchers the Rawhide group would be included, and so know all the plans made against them. While considered a rough, tough crowd, no suspicion had been directed at them so far.

  If anyone suspected them it would be Texas Dowd.

  The only other possible joker in the deck would be Finn Mahone. Now, once suspicion was pinned on him, the Rawhide gang could hit the ranches hard, and it could be attributed to Mahone’s “gang.” Logan meant to sow that thought in the minds of the Laird ranchers: that Mahone had acquired a gang.

  He was perfectly aware that Judge Collins, Doc Finerty, and Dean Armstrong did not believe Mahone a rustler. His evidence would have to convince even them.

  Once the blame was saddled on the man from the Highbinders, he would turn the Rawhide bunch loose on some wholesale raids that would break McInnis and Brewster, Collins and Kastelle. The raids would still be carefully planned, but no longer would the rustlers take cattle in dribbles, and they would kill anyone who saw them.

  The new plan was to clean up while they had Mahone to blame it on. When the big steal was over, when Mahone was shown to be guilty, then killed, and Logan was left in power, he would marry Remy Kastelle and own Laird Valley.

  From there, a man might go far. He might, by conniving, be appointed governor of the Territory. He might do a lot of things. A man with money and no scruples could do much, and he meant to see that none remained behind to mark the trail he had taken to wealth.

  But in all his speculations and planning he overlooked one man. He did not think of Garfield Otis.

  Otis was a drunkard. A man who practically lived on whiskey. He neither intended nor wanted to swear off. He drank because he liked whiskey and because he wanted to forget what he would like to have done, and live in the present. He was always around, and a man who is always around and taken for granted by everyone hears a great deal. If he is a man of intelligence, he learns much more than people give him credit for.

  Had Pierce Logan realized it, only one man in the Laird Valley suspected him. That man was Otis.

  Texas Dowd smelled something odorous in the vicinity of Rawhide. He knew men, and if Banty Hull, Montana Kerr, and the rest were peaceful ranchers, then he was the next Emperor of China. He knew all about Sonntag. He did not like Logan, but did not suspect he was the brain behind the rustling.

  Neither did Otis. But stumbling along the street one evening, Otis had seen Logan ostentatiously lighting a cigarette in front of his office. Later, he had seen him cross the street and enter the livery stable. Seated on the edge of the walk, he had s
een Logan leave the stable, and a moment later a rider headed off across the country. The rider was a big man.

  Otis was only mildly curious at the moment. Yet he wondered who the man was. The man had seemed very big, and in the Laird Valley country only five men were of that size. Logan himself, Judge Collins, Finn Mahone, Leibman, and Byrn Sonntag.

  Dean Armstrong was bent over the desk when Otis opened the door. He looked up. “Hi, Otis!” he called cheerfully. “Come on back and sit down!”

  “Mahone been in town?”

  Dean shook his head. “Not that I know of. No, I’m sure he hasn’t been back since the fight. He said he would bring me a book he was telling me about, and he never forgets, so I guess he hasn’t been in.”

  Then the man wasn’t Finn Mahone.

  The idea had never been a practical one, anyway. What would Mahone want with Logan? And meeting him in secret? It wouldn’t make sense. It had certainly not been Judge Collins. That left only Leibman and Byrn Sonntag. Otis shoved his hands down in his pockets and watched Armstrong’s pen scratching over the paper. “Dean,” he asked, “what do you know about Pierce Logan?”

  “Logan?” Armstrong put his pen down and leaned his forearms on the desk. Then he shook his head. “Just what everyone knows. He’s got one of the best ranches in the valley. Been here about two or three years. He owns the livery stable, and has a partnership in the hotel. I think he has a piece of the Longhorn, too.”

  Dean picked up his pen again, frowning at the paper. “Why?”

  “Oh, just wondering. No reason. Nice-looking man. Do you suppose he’ll marry that Kastelle girl?”

  “Looks like it.” Dean scowled again. Somehow the idea didn’t appeal to him. “If he does he’ll control over half the range in Laird Valley.”

  Otis was restless. He got up. “Yes, you’re right about that. And if McInnis and Brewster decided to sell out, he would own it all.” He turned to go.

  “Wait a minute and I’ll walk over to the Longhorn with you.”

  Then Armstrong glanced at Otis. “Have you eaten?”

  Garfield Otis hesitated, then he turned and smiled. “Why, no. Come to think of it, I haven’t.”

  “Then let’s stop by Ma Boyle’s and eat before we have a drink.”

  They walked out together, and Armstrong locked the door after him. Otis started to speak, and Dean noticed it. “What were you going to say?”

  “Nothing. Just thinking what an empire Laird Valley would be if one man owned it. The finest cattle range in the world, all hemmed in by mountains…like a world by itself!”

  Armstrong was thoughtful. “You know,” he said reflectively, “it would be one of the biggest cattle empires in the country. Probably the biggest.”

  Both men were silent on the way to Ma Boyle’s. When they entered, the long table, still loaded with food at one end, was almost empty. Harran, who owned the Emporium, was there, and Doc Finerty. So was Powis.

  Armstrong, pleased with himself at getting Otis to eat, sat down alongside Finerty. “How are you, Doc?” he asked. “Been out on the range?”

  “Yeah, down to the Mains’s place. She’s ailing again.” He sawed at his steak, then looked up. “Seen that durned Mexie Roberts down there. He was coyotin’ down the range on that buckskin of his.”

  Marshal Pete Miller had come in. Miller was a lean, rangy man with a yellow mustache. A good officer in handling drunks and rowdy cowhands, he could do nothing about the rustlers. He overheard Doc’s comment.

  “Mexie, huh? He’s a bad ’un. Nobody ain’t never proved nothin’ on him, but I always figgered he dry-gulched old Jack Hendry. Remember that?”

  “I ought to!” Doc said. “Shot with a fifty-caliber Sharps! Never could rightly figure how that happened. No cover or tracks around there for almost a mile.”

  “A Sharps’ll carry that far,” Miller said. “Further, maybe. Them’s a powerful shootin’ gun.”

  “Sure,” Doc agreed, “but who could hit a mark at that distance? That big old bullet’s dropping feet, not just inches. That would take some shooting…and he was drilled right through the heart.”

  “They believed it was a stray bullet, didn’t they?” Powis asked. “I remember that’s what they decided.”

  Garfield Otis listened thoughtfully. During the period in question he had lived in Laird, but his memory of the details of Jack Hendry’s death was sketchy at best. One factor in the idea interested him, however. He asked a question to which he knew the answer. “What became of Hendry’s ranch?”

  “Sam, that no-good son of his, sold it,” Harran said. “You recall that Sam Hendry? Probably drunk it all up by now. He sold out to Pierce Logan and took off.”

  “Best thing ever happened to this town!” Powis said. “Logan’s really done some good here. That livery stable and hotel never was any good until he bought ’em.”

  “That’s right,” Harran agreed. “The town’s at least got a hotel a woman can stop in now.”

  Otis walked to the Longhorn beside Armstrong, and they stood at the bar together and talked of Nathaniel Hawthorne and Walt Whitman. Armstrong returned to his work, and Garfield Otis, fortified by a few extra dollars, proceeded to get very, very drunk.

  He had been drunk many times, but when he was drunk he often remembered things he had otherwise forgotten. Perhaps it was the subject of discussion at supper, perhaps it was only the liquor. More likely it was a combination of the two and Otis’s worry over Finn Mahone, for out of it all came a memory. At noon the next day, when he awakened in the haymow at the livery barn, he still remembered.

  At first he had believed it was a nightmare. He had been drunk that night, too. He had walked out on a grassy slope across the wash that ran along behind the livery stable and the Longhorn. Lying on the grass, he had fallen into a drunken stupor.

  Seemingly a long time after, he had opened his eyes and heard a mumble of voices, and then something that sounded like a blow. He had fallen asleep again, and when he awakened once more, he heard the sound of a shovel grating on gravel. Crawling closer, he had seen a big man digging in the earth, and nearby lay something that seemed to be a body.

  Frightened, he had stayed where he was until long after the man had moved away. Then he returned to his original bed and slept the night through. It wasn’t until afternoon the next day that he remembered, and then he shrugged it off as a dream. The thought returned now, and with it came another.

  For the first time, things were dovetailing in his mind. As the pieces began to fit together, realization swept over him, but no course of action seemed plain. His brain was muddled by liquor, and that dulled the knowledge his reason brought him, so he did nothing.

  * * *

  REMY KASTELLE AWAKENED with a start. For an instant she stared around the unfamiliar room, trying to recall where she was and all that had happened.

  Quietly, she dressed, and only then saw the folded paper thrust under the door. She crossed the room and picked it up.

  Had to take a run up to the next valley, be back about eight. There’s hot water over the fire, and coffee in the pot.

  When she had bathed and combed her hair, she poured a cup of coffee and went to the door.

  She stopped dead still, her heart beating heavily and her eyes wide with wonder.

  The stone cabin was on a ledge slightly above the valley, and she looked out across a valley of green, blowing grass toward a great, rust-red cliff scarred with white. It was crested with the deep green of cedars that at one place followed a ledge down across the face of the cliff for several hundred yards. Through the bottom of the valley ran Crystal Creek, silver and lovely under the bright morning sun. In all her life she had seen no place more beautiful than this.

  Looking down the rippling green of the grasslands, she saw the enormous stone towers that marked the entrance, a division in the wall that could have been scarcely more than fifty feet wide. From out on the porch, she could look up the valley toward where Crystal Creek cut through another entra
nce, this one at least two hundred yards across, looking into a still larger valley. Scattered white-face cattle grazed in the bottoms along the stream. Not the rawboned half-fed range cows she knew, but fat, heavy cattle.

  As she looked, she saw a horseman come through that upper opening, a big man riding at a fast canter on a black stallion. She watched him, and something stirred deeply within her. So much so that, disturbed, she wrenched her eyes away and walked back into the kitchen. Putting down her cup she went into the bedroom to get her hat. Only then did she see the picture.

  There were three, two of them landscapes. It was the third that caught her eyes. It was a portrait of a girl with soft dark eyes and dark hair, her face demure and lovely. Remy walked up to it, and stared thoughtfully.

  A sister? No. A wife? A sweetheart?

  She looked at the picture first because of curiosity, and then her eyes became calculating, as with true feminine instinct she gauged this woman’s beauty against her own. Was this the girl he loved? Was this the reason he preferred to live alone?

  Memory of the cup and the warm coffee returned to her. Was he alone?

  The sound of the arriving horse jerked her attention from the picture, and hat in hand she walked out to the porch.

  “Hi!” Mahone called. “Had some coffee?”

  Remy nodded. “If you’ll show me the way, I’ll start back now.”

  “Better let me show you the rest of the valley,” he suggested. “This is beautiful, but the upper valley is even more so.”

  “No. I often stay away all night. Father’s used to it. But I always head back early. I stay at the Brewsters’ occasionally, and sometimes with the McInnis family. Once even at Judge Collins’s ranch.”

  She laughed. “The judge was really nervous. I’m afraid he thought I was compromised and that he might have to marry me!”

  Finn looked at her, his eyes curious. “You’re right. And I think you’d better be sure somebody knows where you are from now on.”