At that moment he heard the sound of horses’ hooves. He sat still, listening.
They were drawing nearer, coming from the direction of Rawhide, and there were a good-sized bunch of them. Texas Dowd got to his feet and walked to the door of the barn. He loosened his six-guns in their holsters and picked up a rifle. His gray eyes worked at the night, striving to see them when they first appeared.
They were talking. He distinguished a voice as the hard, nasal twang of Frank Salter. “You git that Brewster? Was he dead, Al?”
“You was here. Why didn’t you look?” Alcorn demanded querulously. “Of course I killed him!”
Texas Dowd had no illusions, nor any compunctions when it came to fighting outlaws and killers. He lifted his rifle, leveled at the voice of Alcorn, and fired.
As though a bolt of lightning had struck among them, riders scattered in every direction, and several of them fired. Dowd saw the flame stab the night, but he was watching his target. Alcorn slid from his horse and fell loosely, heavily into the dust and lay still.
Tex dropped to the ground and lay quiet, listening to the shouting and swearing among the Rawhiders. Then several shots rang out and Dowd heard a bullet strike the log wall. He lay quiet, ignoring it. He had no intention of wasting ammunition on the night air.
He could hear their argument, for their voices carried in the clear, still air. “Like hell Brewster’s dead! He got Al!”
“That wasn’t him,” Montana said. “Brewster might not of been dead, but he was far gone when I last seen him! Somebody else has moved in!”
The voices seemed to be centering around one group of trees, so Dowd lifted his rifle and fired four times, rapid fire. Curses rang out, then silence. He chuckled to himself. “That will make them more careful!” he said.
Texas Dowd settled down behind the sandbags. It was lighter out there, and he could see any movement if an attempt was made to cross the ranch yard. Beside him Brewster stirred, and when Dowd looked down he saw the man’s face was gray and his breathing more labored. Van Brewster was going to die.
Dowd whispered to him, “Who shot you, Van?”
He was repeating the question a third time when Brewster’s lips stirred. After a moment, the words came. “Bant…y Hull, Alcorn…an’ them.”
“I got Alcorn,” Dowd told him. “I’ll get Hull for you, too.”
Brewster’s eyes fought their way open and he caught at Dowd’s shirtfront. “Watch…Logan. He start…ed to shoot me.”
Pierce Logan? Dowd’s mind accepted the thought and turned it over. Logan, the innocent bystander, the man on the sidelines. Why not him?
* * *
OVER IN THE dark brush, Montana Kerr was growing irritable. “Let’s rush the place! Let’s dig him out of there, whoever he is!”
“Wait!” Hull suggested. “I have a better plan. We’ll try fire!”
CHAPTER 7
IT WAS PIERCE LOGAN himself, coming for Doc Finerty, who brought the first word of the range war to Laird. As Doc threw a few necessary articles into his saddlebags, Logan gave a brief account of what he wanted them to know. Brewster was badly wounded, perhaps dead, and his ranch house had been burned.
The second bit of news came from Nick James. He was almost at the opposite side of the Lazy K range, heading for the Notch, when he heard the shots fired by the rustlers at Bovetas and Rifenbark. Leaving his packhorse, he turned back, riding warily. So it was that he arrived at the Lazy K just in time to meet Remy as she returned from Brewster’s.
Nick James headed for Laird on a fresh horse. His news, added to that brought by Logan, had the town on its ear. The cattle had been driven off the Lazy K and Brewster’s spread in one sweep. Bovetas was dead. Taggart was dead. Brewster was wounded. Rifenbark had recognized the Rawhide crowd.
While the streets filled with talking, excited men, Finn Mahone rolled off the bed in the back of Ma Boyle’s and pulled on his boots. There were voices in the hall and a sudden pounding on his door. Springing to his feet, gun in hand, he opened it wide. Lettie Mason was standing there.
“Finn!” she cried. “Come quickly! I’ve just found Otis and he’s badly wounded. He’s been lying out in the brush where he was left for dead. He wants to see you.”
On the way to her place, Lettie told him the news. Finn’s mind leaped over the gaps and saw the situation just as it was. Dowd had stayed at Brewster’s with the dying man, so he would be there alone. A dangerous position if the rustlers came back. Finn was prepared to find Texas and explain himself. If his plan worked…At the thought of riding beside his old comrade again, his heart gave a leap.
Garfield Otis, his face gray and ghastly with the proximity of death, was fully conscious when they came in. A messenger from Lettie had caught Finerty as he was leaving town. Logan had not been with him, for Pierce had no intention of returning to Brewster’s. If Finerty was killed, it would be one more out of the way.
“Don’t talk long,” Finerty warned, “but it will do him good to get it off his chest, whatever it is!”
Otis put out a hand to stop Finerty from leaving, and then he whispered hoarsely, “Logan shot me…he’s hand in glove with Sonntag. I’ve seen him talking with him, more than once. One time I was drunk an’ seen…Logan kill a…man. He’s…he’s…buried on the hill back of the liv…ery stable. It’s Sam…Hendry!”
“Hendry?” Finerty grabbed Finn’s arm. “Logan must have bought the ranch from Hendry, then stole his money back. We figured Sam went off and blew it in, but he never got away! What do you know about that?”
“Old man Hendry was killed by a dry-gulcher,” Lettie suggested. “Probably it was Mex Roberts, so maybe we can guess who hired him?”
“Looks like Logan, all right,” Mahone admitted. “I think I’ll have a talk with him.”
“Finn,” Lettie interrupted, “there’s something else I’d better tell you. Pierce Logan came from New Orleans. I recognized him and I’ve heard him talk about it. He used another name then, Cashman…I don’t remember the first name.”
Mahone turned square around. “When did Logan first come into this country? About six months or so before I did?”
“Maybe a little less,” Finerty said. He looked from Lettie to Finn. “You know something?”
Finn Mahone ignored the question, his heart racing. Pierce Logan was in town, but what was suddenly more imperative was seeing Texas Dowd. After all these years Finn found himself choosing friendship over vengeance. Now, more than ever, he had to see Dowd. The past could wait!
“Let’s go, Doc!” he said. “I’m riding with you. Lettie, you said Nick had come back into town? Tell him to keep an eye on Pierce Logan. Not to get into any fight, just keep watch. I’m coming back for him!”
He saddled the black, grabbed up the gelding, and they headed out.
When they had come most of the way, Finn turned to Finerty. “Doc, I don’t like the look of that glow in the sky! You come along as fast as you can.”
The black stretched his legs. Finn, crouching forward, kept his attention focused tightly on riding, one hand on the reins, the other gripping the gelding’s lead rope as lightly as he dared. He didn’t want to lose the horse, especially now, but if it misstepped he would have to let go before he was jerked from the saddle. Finn’s eyes were riveted on the glow against the night sky. If they had fired that old pole barn, Dowd would be finished.
After the horses had covered a couple of miles, he slowed them for a breather, and then let them out again. Now he could see the fire, and it was partly the glow from the burned house, and partly the flames from a huge haystack nearby, fired by the rustlers to give them a better shooting light.
Mahone slowed to a canter, and then to a walk. He unlimbered his rifle and moved closer, and when he did, he could see what the outlaws were about.
They had a hayrack piled high with hay, and they were shoving it toward the embattled defender of the barn, obviously planning to set it afire once it was against the pole side of the crude stru
cture. Whether the barn burned or not—and it would—anyone inside would be baked by the awful heat.
Finn watched one of the dark figures moving, and then he lifted his rifle, took careful aim, and fired!
The man screamed and fell over on the ground, and the rustlers, shocked by the sudden attack, broke and ran for cover. Finn got in another shot as they ran, and saw a man stumble. Dowd must be alive, for a rifle barked from the barn as the attackers fled.
Riding swiftly, Mahone rounded the ranch yard, keeping out of the glow of the fire, and then emptied his Winchester into the grove of trees where the outlaws had gone. Swiftly, and still moving, he reloaded his rifle and checked his six-guns.
Yet even as he moved in for another attack, he heard the gallop of fast-moving horses, and saw the dark band of rustlers sweep off across country. They had abandoned the field for the moment, and were probably headed for an attack upon the Lazy K. Finn rode close, then swung to the ground.
“Tex!” he yelled. “I want to talk, Tex! Peace talk!”
Dowd’s voice rang loud over the firelit yard. “I’ve nothing to say to you, Mahone!”
“Tex, you’re a damned, bullheaded fool!” Finn roared back at him. “You got what you thought was evidence and jumped to conclusions. I wasn’t anywhere near the plantation when it happened!”
Silence held for several minutes, and then Dowd yelled back. “Is Finerty comin’? Brewster’s in a bad way!”
“Be here in a minute. I’m coming in, Tex! You hold your fire!”
Leaving the stallion standing ground-hitched, Finn walked out into the firelight. With quick, resolute steps he crossed the hard-packed earth toward the barn. Dowd, hatless, his face grimy, was waiting for him.
“The man who killed Honey is in Laird,” Finn said, halting, “and I’ve got some proof.”
Dowd’s face did not change. Suspicion was still hard in every line of it. “Who?” he demanded.
“Pierce Logan.”
“Logan?” Dowd took a step nearer. “What do you mean, Finn? How could that be?”
“I trailed him, Tex. I got home before you did, and I found her. She was still alive then, and she grabbed me. That’s how she got that button. She gave me the name of the man, for he had come by the place before. When the riots started and the country was full of fighting and burning, he came back. He went crazy…Well, I trailed him. I lost him, finally, in Rico.
“Now I hear Pierce Logan hit Rico and killed a man there about that time, and then came on over here. Lettie Mason can tell you that he’s from New Orleans and the name he was using back then.”
“You said Honey knew his name—what was it?”
“Cashman—remember? He was a renegade southerner who tied up with the carpetbaggers and some of the tough crowd around New Orleans. He lived on the Vickers place a few miles west of you for a while.”
Texas Dowd stared at Finn, his bitterness ebbing. This was the one man he had loved like a brother. “How do I know you’re not lyin’?”
Finn whistled between pinched fingers. Fury trotted up into the firelight, the steel-dust gelding following. Dowd looked from the horses to Mahone, eyes narrowing.
“What’s this?”
“Look closely. That’s Vickers’s gelding. You chased me quite a ways—did I take two horses?”
“No.”
“The only time I ever saw Cashman, it was off across a field, and he’d borrowed that horse to go into town. When he fled, he stole it from Vickers. He left the horse in Santa Fe. I bought him a couple of months later.” Finn examined Dowd. “I figured that someday I might get the chance to show him to you.”
“I never seen Cashman. Heard of him, though.”
“I’m told he’s a bad man with a gun, Dowd.”
“I’ll find out.” Dowd’s expression was grim. His wind-darkened face was tight and still. Then he turned to Mahone. “Thanks for getting Roberts. He would have killed me sure.”
“Ask Lettie, Tex. She can tell you his name, too.”
“I’d like to believe all this.”
“Then believe it.”
Doc Finerty rode up and swung down. Tex wheeled and guided him to Van Brewster. Finn stared after Texas, and then a slow grin swept his face and he followed them until Tex looked up. “Dowd, let’s leave Doc and go to Rawhide. Let’s burn that rathole around their ears, just you and me.”
Texas Dowd held himself thoughtfully for a moment, and then he grinned. “You always were one for raisin’ hob,” he said. “All right, let’s go!”
The two riders covered the distance to Rawhide at a rapid gallop. Byrn Sonntag had ridden out a few minutes after the others had started back into Laird Valley, so except for a few of the followers of the Rawhide crowd, few people were around. As the two horsemen clattered down the street, a shot was fired from a window. Dowd wheeled, putting a bullet through it, and then sprang from his horse and went into the barroom. “Get out!” he said to the fat-faced bartender. “Get out and quick! I’m burnin’ this place down!”
“Like hell!” The bartender swung and grabbed for his shotgun, but a bullet smashed his hand into a bloody wreck.
“Get out!” Dowd yelled. “You get the next one in your belly!”
The bartender scuttled for the door, and Dowd kicked a heap of papers together and broke an oil lamp in them, then dropped a match. Down the street there was shooting, and he rode out to find Finn Mahone standing in the street with his Winchester in his hand. Finn looked up, a dark streak of soot along his jaw, and an angry red burn. “Someone damn near checked me out.”
“You get him?”
“Right between the eyes.”
The flames inside the saloon were eating at the floor now, and creeping along the bar. The frame buildings, dry as ancient parchment, would go up like tinder in a high wind.
Both men swung into their saddles, and lighting some sacks, raced from door to door, scattering the fire. The wind caught the flames, and in a matter of minutes the outlaw town was one great, roaring, crackling inferno. “That will kill a lot of rats!” Finn yelled above the sound of the flames. “Let’s ride out of here!”
Away from the town, Finn glanced at the tall Texan. “It’s like old times, Dowd!”
“Sure is.” The Texan stared bleakly down the road. “I’m an awful fool, Finn.”
“Forget it. How could you know any different? Honey had that button…and it was Logan, all right. It checks too close not to be him. My trail petered out in Rico, but I never knew much about Logan, and never paid much attention to him until the day I saw him on the street with Remy Kastelle.”
They rode on, heading toward Laird. Neither of them were much worried about the Lazy K. Jody Carson, Rifenbark, and Pete Goodale were there, and aside from them there was the cook and Kastelle himself. As for Remy, she could handle a rifle better than most men.
The two rode on, side by side, looking toward the town of Laird. Texas Dowd eased himself in the saddle. “I want Logan,” he said carefully.
“He’s yours.”
Doc Finerty was standing beside the pole barn when they rode up, and there was already a graying light in the east. “Van’s in a bad way, but he’s got a chance,” Doc said. He glanced from one to the other. “Where you been?”
“We burned Rawhide,” Finn said. “Now we’re scalp-hunting. Dowd wants Logan.”
“Logan! Well, you look out for Sonntag. He’s dangerous, Finn. He’s the worst of them all.”
Mahone gestured at Brewster. “Would he make it to Laird in a buckboard?”
“He might,” Doc said dubiously. “I’ve been studying about it. He would have better care there. Lettie, she’ll take him in, and she’s a good nurse, the best around here.”
Finn got the buckboard from behind the pole barn and they roped a couple of horses and got them hitched. The ride to town was slow and careful, and as daylight came, the buckboard creaked to a stop outside of Lettie Mason’s. Finn rounded the stallion and faced down the street. There was no on
e in sight, for it was barely rising time for the people of Laird. Smoke was beginning to lift from a couple of chimneys.
When Brewster was inside in the care of Lettie, and Doc was sitting over coffee, Finn and Dowd walked outside. “Nick James was to keep an eye on him. Let’s walk up to Ma Boyle’s.”
Laird was quiet in the early morning light, and the dusty street was very still. Somewhere a door slammed, and then a pump began to creak, and afterward they heard a heavy stream of water gushing into a wooden bucket.
The two men walked up the street, then stepped on the boardwalk. Suddenly, Finn saw that the saloon was open. He pushed through the doors. Red Eason looked up, his face growing suddenly still, watchful as he saw who his visitors were.
“Two, and make them both rye,” Finn said.
Red poured the drinks and put the bottle on the bar. He glanced from one to the other, and he swallowed. He laid his hands on the bar in plain sight.
“Nice in California, Red,” Mahone said suddenly. “You’ll enjoy it there.”
“Listen,” Red Eason said quickly, “I never made any trouble for you fellows. I can’t leave. I…” His voice dwindled away as they both looked at him.
“Red,” Finn leaned his forearms on the bar, “I like this town. I feel at home here. Dowd likes it, too. We’ve some mighty fine folks around here, and we want to see the town clean and keep it a nice place for people to live. Not like that Rawhide. If this place got as bad as Rawhide, we might have to burn it, too.”
“We don’t want to do that,” Dowd said gently, “so Finn and me, we sort of decided to weed out the undesirable elements, as they say. We sort of figure you come under that particular handle.”
Eason’s face was stiff. He was frightened, but there was still fight in him. “You can’t get away with it!” His voice was thick. “Pierce won’t stand for it!”
“Don’t call him that, Red,” Finn said. “Call him Cashman. That’s what Dowd’s going to call him when he sees him. Cashman’s the name of a murderer. The murderer of Tex’s sister. He killed Sam Hendry, too. Had him drunk and then killed him and buried him out back of the livery stable. Otis saw it.”
Collection 1997 - End Of The Drive (v5.0) Page 20
