And an hour later, after a leisurely meal, they had mounted up and ridden through the little Mexican town…and there was not a soul in sight.
Dowd knew he had to kill Mahone. Whenever he thought of that brutal murder, a tide of fierce anger rose within him. Yet somehow, something held him back. It was not only that he had not had the chance to meet Mahone since that time, nor was it that there was no way across the slides. Something in him refused to admit that what had happened had happened.
The dust of the same roads had pounded into their faces, and the powder smoke of the same battles had burned their nostrils. He shook his head, and looked up. He turned then and walked into the bunkhouse.
Resolutely, he put aside all thought of Mahone. There was planning to be done.
He had, as it was a slack time, just four hands on the ranch. With the Negro cook, and Kastelle and himself, there were seven. The cook was a tough man and loyal, but he was as old as Frenchy Kastelle and not in as good shape.
What was coming now was open warfare. He knew without further evidence that this was the beginning. Or rather, Roberts’s shot at him had been the beginning. Had Mahone not killed Mexie Roberts, Dowd would be dead now. Abe McInnis was in bed, seriously wounded. Taggart killed. On top of that, if they had killed Dowd the range would have been open to do what they pleased.
He got up and paced the floor. Desperately, he needed someone to side him. This was no longer a lone-wolf job. He couldn’t be everywhere, and there was still Sonntag. He was out on the range somewhere, and wherever he was, death would soon follow. Texas Dowd knew without doubt that Sonntag would be gunning for him, and that meant he had to kill Sonntag.
It would settle nothing. Someone else was behind this, someone who had ordered his death.
Mahone?
Dowd shook his head. Finn would do his own killing. Suddenly, he remembered he had two men out on the range. They were riding alone…and the killers of Taggart had been headed north!
He lunged from the house and ran for his horse. “Stay here!” he yelled at the men by the bunkhouse. He hit the saddle and was gone.
Frenchy Kastelle walked back into the house. Coolly, he got down from their rack his new Winchester ’73 and the Sharps .50. Then he checked their loads and put them within easy reach of his hand. He went into his bedroom and got his .44 and belted it on.
Kastelle snapped to with a start. Remy! Where was she? He turned and stepped to the door and saw Jody Carson staring out over the range. “Where’s Remy?” he called.
Jody ran around the corner of the bunkhouse and stared at the corral. “Her mare’s gone!” he yelled. “She must’ve headed out.”
Kastelle stood an instant in indecision. Carson’s face was a picture of worry. “Gosh, Boss! I never give her a thought, we’re so used to her comin’ an’ goin’!”
“I know,” he said. He held himself still and tried to think where she could have gone. Perhaps just for a ride, to ride away her own doubts and bitterness. If so, she might have gone in any direction. Kastelle stood there, his mind curiously alert. He tried to think of everything, tried to decide what was best to do. “We would be foolish to look for her,” he said finally. “We’ll have to wait.”
“Well, nobody’s goin’ to come up to her on that mare. That Roxie can outrun anything on this range, unless it’s that black of Mahone’s.”
“Dowd’s out now,” Carson said, “an’ Bovetas an’ Rifenbark are still out there. I reckon Dowd figgered they might run into them Rawhide hands that killed Taggart.”
Kastelle sat down on the porch, his Winchester close at his hand. Carson stood for a minute, waiting, then walked back to the bunkhouse. Pete Goodale looked up. “The boss wears those guns like he could use ’em,” he said. “Never seen him wear one before.”
The day drew along slowly, and the sun reached the meridian, then started its long slide toward the distant Rimrock, a high red bulwark against the green range.
* * *
TEXAS DOWD KEPT his horse at a canter to save it, and headed back up range. He saw few cattle, and this area had been covered with them a fortnight ago. His face drew down in hard lines. He had waited too long. He should have gone to Rawhide and killed Sonntag. If Sonntag was gone, the rest of them would fall apart…but again he recalled his belief that behind Sonntag was another, unknown person.
He was almost to the edge of the Highbinders when he heard a faint yell. He reined in his horse and shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun. Someone was waving a hat. He jacked a shell into the chamber of his Winchester and rode ahead, his eyes studying the ground. When he got a little closer, a man got up out of the grass. It was Rifenbark.
“What happened?” Rif’s head was bloody and he was limping.
“Three of them Rawhide hands. I seen ’em drivin’ some cattle ahead, so I started down range. I was a ways off. Bovetas, he seen ’em before I did, an’ he rode down on ’em.”
Rifenbark’s eyes were bleak. “They never give him a chance. I seen it, an’ I also seen I wasn’t goin’ to do much good agin’ three of ’em on a hoss. I hit dirt, an’ when they got close enough, I opened up with my rifle.
“Never did no good, though. Never even winged one. They just waved at me an’ rode on, then two of ’em circled back, an’ one got in this here shot that cut my scalp. I shot again, but didn’t get neither one, although I burned ’em up some.”
“Where’s your horse?”
“Yonder in them trees. I seen him movin’ there a minute ago.”
Dowd wheeled his horse and started for the trees. He would get Rif mounted, and then they would cut along toward Brewster’s. They might come up with the herd again.
* * *
FAR AWAY TO the east, two separate riders were headed toward Brewster’s as toward the apex of a triangle. One of these was Remy Kastelle; the other was Pierce Logan.
Pierce Logan rode rapidly. He was heading for Rawhide, and he had a few plans he wanted to put into execution, and he was looking for a man to replace Mex Roberts. Despite himself, he was worried. He could think of no particular reason why he should be, although he had planned to have Dowd out of the way before things came to a head.
He had chosen Roberts to kill Sonntag when the time came, and now that chance was gone. If Sonntag were to be killed, he must find someone else…or do it himself. It might come to that.
A vast impatience lay upon him. Cool planning had been his best hand, but now movement had taken the place of thinking. He knew and approved of what the Rawhide crowd were doing today. Before nightfall, fear would be alive on the range. As long as he had the chance to place the blame on Mahone or his “gang” it would be all right…but that was touch and go so far, because they had not had a chance to mix any altered brands into the cattle he was selling.
Pierce Logan had ridden out of town after his meeting with Dowd, and he had stayed the night in a line shack on Brewster’s range. He would stay out of sight as much as possible. At all costs, he wished to avoid being forced to show his colors.
He reached the Brewster ranch to find the house in flames and the stock driven off. There was no sign of anyone around the place. Yet he had scarcely ridden into the yard when he heard a low moan. He swung his horse, and his pistol flashed into his hand.
The groan sounded again, and he swung down and walked toward the barn. It had been left standing due to the amount of feed stored there, and some valuable saddles. Logan had been cold-blooded about that. “Might as well keep it, Byrn,” he said dryly. “We can use that stuff, and the feed will be good for our horses.”
“Logan?” Pierce turned his head to the voice and saw a hand wave feebly from under a pile of sacking. “Help!” The voice was weak.
In two strides he was beside the sacking and jerked it back. Van Brewster, his shirt covered with blood, lay on the barn floor. His lids fluttered and he tried to speak again. Coolly, Logan lifted his pistol. They’d botched the job, but he might as well finish it.
Then he
heard a horse’s hooves. Wheeling, he saw Remy Kastelle ride into the ranch yard on her white mare. Thrusting his gun into the holster, he called to her. “Come here! Brewster’s hurt!”
Remy dismounted and ran to him. He took her elbow and showed her the wounded man. Then, cursing under his breath, he picked up a bucket and went for water while she unfastened the man’s rough shirt. Van Brewster was badly wounded, she could see that at a glance. If he lived it would be more luck than anything they could do. If only they had Doc Finerty!
“Logan…started…” Brewster’s mutter faded, then his eyes opened again, “…shoot me,” he ended.
The words made no sense. Obviously he was delirious, and she thought no more of what he had said. An hour later, with the wounds bathed and bandaged from some supplies she carried in her saddlebags, she stood facing Logan.
“He can’t be moved, Pierce.” Her voice was worried. “I’m going to stay here with him. Why don’t you ride for Doc? That horse of yours will get to him faster than anyone else.”
“Leave me with him,” Logan suggested. “Your mare is fast, and you’d be safer in town than here.”
She hesitated. “No, I’ll stay. Ever since this started I’ve been carrying a few things with me. If he should need help, I could give it to him. I’ll be all right.”
“Well…” He hesitated. She was here, alone. Why not now? In a few days…? Then he told himself not to be a fool. He wanted the Lazy K. He could get a clearer title by marriage, and besides, she would be an asset. There was plenty of time. He told himself that coolly, while he avoided her glance. She was the loveliest girl he had ever seen. Only one had been nearly so beautiful.
“All right, I’ll go. Be careful,” he advised, “and stay out of sight.” This would prevent him from going on to Rawhide, but that could wait. He would appear to be doing more good this way. Finerty would remember it, and Brewster, if he lived. Had Brewster seen him lift that pistol? He doubted it. Mounting, he waved good-bye and started the bay horse at a fast canter.
Remy looked after him, wondering about him again as she often had in these last few days. He sat his horse splendidly. He was a man a woman could be proud of. But…
She walked back to the barn and gathered more sacks to make Brewster more comfortable. Time and again she walked to the door, but it would be hours before Logan could return.
* * *
PIERCE LOGAN WAS in no hurry. He was going for Finerty, but he was hoping that Brewster would die before the doctor could reach him to help. Hurrying would only increase the chances for Brewster to live. Still, if he did live he would be ill for a long time, and by that time the whole trouble would be settled, one way or another.
Now that he was away from her, he was glad he had not molested Remy Kastelle. There was something about being alone with a woman like that that always fired him with some strange, burning desire. Yet, he could wait. All this, and her, would soon be his. Only three obstacles remained. Texas Dowd, the plan against Finn Mahone, and Byrn Sonntag.
The Rawhide gunman was his man, but he was too powerful a force for Logan to leave in the field. Sonntag had started changing Logan’s policy when the Rawhide boys began their outright theft. Sonntag controlled the men doing the rustling. So Logan had no choice but to go along with it or be sidelined. As soon as the events in the Laird Valley came to a head, Logan and Sonntag were going to have to find out who was boss. Yet it was a simple choice…only one would be alive.
* * *
NORTH OF HIM the clans were gathering in Rawhide. Byrn Sonntag had been sitting at a table waiting for them. Montana Kerr came in, dusty from his long ride. Briefly, he reported. Sonntag fingered his glass. Dan Taggart was dead. That was good, for the man had fight in him. Bovetas was dead. That was unimportant, but it was another gun eliminated. Brewster was dead, or so the report came in. The Brewster and McInnis operations were out of the fight, and the bulk of their cattle were on the move. There remained only the Lazy K.
Logan was soft on hitting the Kastelle ranch. He had some plan of his own, for he had always told Sonntag to go easy. The reason he gave was the watchfulness of Texas Dowd, but Sonntag suspected it had more to do with the girl. The thought of Dowd irritated Sonntag. The man was good with a gun. But how good?
He knew Dowd slightly. Finn Mahone was still only a name to him, once or twice their trails had crossed, but always at a distance.
Ike Hibby, Ringer Cobb, Banty Hull, and the rest of them had ridden in from the range. The war was on, and the Rawhide riders had struck fast and hard.
He was not worried about Laird. Its citizens would have little effect outside the town. There would be resistance, but a resistance of spirit rather than physical power. Byrn Sonntag had nothing but contempt for resistance of the spirit. Such resistance is of avail only so long as one’s enemy is aware of things of the spirit, and aware of public opinion. Sonntag knew that Logan wanted to keep the war bottled up in Laird Valley. Sonntag could see the advantage in that. Yet Pierce Logan disturbed him. Why, he couldn’t say.
Logan, he was well aware, was in the clear. At no point was Logan obviously involved. His skirts were clean, and there was nothing for him to worry about if the plan failed. Sometimes Sonntag wondered if he needed Logan. Yet, he had to admit, he was better heeled now than any time in his life, fear of reprisals was almost nonexistent, and it looked like his men were riding to complete dominance of the valley.
* * *
TEXAS DOWD, SIDED by Rifenbark, made a wide sweep of the Lazy K range. Mile by mile, bitterness welled up within him. The range had been swept of cattle. Back in the brakes there would be some, of course, but all those in sight had been driven off. Open war had been declared, and the attack was all to the advantage of the enemy.
Distant smoke warned him of fire at Brewster’s, so the two rode on. When still some distance away, he recognized Remy’s mare and put his horse to a gallop.
Remy ran from the barn to greet him. “It was the Rawhide bunch! If Logan and I hadn’t got here—!”
Dowd’s interruption was quick. “Logan here? Who got here first, you or him?”
“Why, he did…why?”
Dowd’s face was expressionless. “Just wondering. This is a long ways from P Slash L range, and a long way from Laird.”
“Surely you don’t suspect Pierce?” Remy was incredulous.
“I suspect everybody!” Dowd replied shortly. “Hell’s broke loose! Taggart’s been murdered, an’ so’s Bovetas!”
Remy’s face went white. Dan Taggart she knew well, and Bovie…why, he was one of their own boys! Tex went on to tell her about the missing cattle.
While Rif kept watch, Dowd swung down and went inside. Van Brewster was lying on the sacks, breathing hoarsely. His face was wet with sweat and he looked bad. Texas Dowd was familiar with the look of wounded men, and he wouldn’t have given a plugged peso for the cattleman’s chances.
Without saying anything further to Remy he walked outside. A study of the earth, where it wasn’t packed too hard by sun and rain, showed him it was the same lot from Rawhide. The fact that Rawhide was not many miles away made him no happier. They were in no position to defend themselves if attacked. The barn was a flimsy structure, and outnumbered as they might be, there would be almost no chance for them.
That the Kastelle ranch was in the hands of few men was bad. Dowd was a practical fighting man, and he knew such a division of forces was often fatal. Now, when they lacked so much in strength and were encumbered by a dying man, it was infinitely worse. He made his decision quickly.
“Remy,” he said, “get on your horse, and you and Rif head for the ranch. I’ll stay with Brewster. There’s nothing more you or anybody can do until the doctor comes.”
Remy shook her head. “No, we’ll stay. What if they come back?”
Dowd’s face was like ice. “You’ll do as I say, Remy. Never since you was a little girl have I given you an order. I’m givin’ you one now! Your father’s probably worried to death by n
ow. He’s alone with just the hands at the ranch, and that’s the next place they’ll hit. They’ve wrecked McInnis and Brewster. Believe me, if they tackle the ranch he’ll need all the help he can get. You two start back, and don’t loaf on the way.”
An instant longer she hesitated, but there was a cold logic in what Dowd said. The ranch must not be lost, and their fighting power must be kept intact. “All right, I’ll go.”
She walked out and swung into the saddle. Rifenbark hesitated, rubbing his grizzled jaw. “Gosh, Tex, I—”
“Get along,” Dowd said. “I’ll be all right.”
When they had ridden away he stood there in front of the barn. Brewster’s house was a heap of charred ruins, still smoking. The barn was a crude building of logs, but most of them were mere poles. It was nothing for defense. Nor was there a good spot around. If he was tackled here…well, he would have a damned slim chance. And Brewster could not be moved.
He hunted around until he found Brewster’s rifle; luckily, it was in the scabbard on his saddle. With it was an ammunition belt. He brought it back into the barn, and then got some sacks and filled them with sand. These he piled against the wall. There were some grain-filled sacks, and he added them.
Twilight came, and then night. He sat back against the sacks and listened to the hoarse breathing of the wounded man. Outside, little stars of red twinkled and sparked among the black of the dying fire.
Pierce Logan had been here. Why? The thought got into his mind and stuck there. This part of the range held nothing for Logan. He had made no practice of visiting surrounding ranches. There was no reason for his being here, and the thought nettled Dowd. He liked to have a reason for things. He stared into the night, and then let his eyes shift to the ruins of the house.
Collection 1997 - End Of The Drive (v5.0) Page 19
