Wild West

by Elmer Kelton

  “It’s not the kind of country that a woman tackles alone,” he warned her.

  “Wilma Dixon made out all right,” she said pointedly.

  He rubbed his chin a little before he answered that one. “But John Dixon had the place well established before he died. And she wasn’t exactly alone, even afterward. She had help.”

  Her brown eyes were stubborn. “Nearly everything I’ve ever done, I’ve had to do without help. I’ve gotten by; I’ll get by now. All my life I’ve had to be moving around. I’ve never had anything of my own, or a place I could look to as a home of my own.

  “Well, now I’ve got a place, and I’m going to keep it. I’ll not let anybody talk me out of it, and nobody is going to chase me away. If they think they can, they’re in for a sad surprise.”

  She left the next morning. Somewhat against her will, he went with her to Peace Valley to locate a couple of trustworthy cowhands for her.

  He watched her sell, sight unseen, enough of her cows to pay immediate expenses, and watched the way she bought supplies she would need for the ranch. There was no indecision or frivolity about her.

  An admiration grew in him as he watched. And when at last she climbed into an old but sturdy wagon she had bought, he took off his hat with a grin.

  “I think you’re going to make it.”

  Her little jaw took on that determined set again. “You’re doggone right I’ll make it!”

  She flipped the reins like a teamster and took the bouncing wagon north, her two middle-aged cowhands following along on horseback. Scott watched until they faded together as one tiny dust speck far out on the plains. All the way home he thought about her, and he wondered why.

  Saltiest of the little ranchmen in the high country was leather-tough Jock Classen. An old bachelor, he was a short, stocky kind that had a banty rooster fire to him. One night a couple of years back, he and two Mexican ranch hands had run off a bunch of would-be cattle rustlers. It got to be an open secret that they were Curly Kirkendall and his men. And every time someone mentioned Jock Classen, Curly would duck his head and grin.

  Jock had had a rousing run-in with Clive Bannock, too, and Bannock had left in a hurry, with Classen’s shotgun boosting him along.

  About a week after Jess Owen’s death, a neighbor rode over to Classen’s ranch and found Classen and both his Mexican hands dead. Classen had been shot in the back. His gentes had their guns out but evidently had never had a chance to use them.

  Cold fury building in them, Classen’s neighbors soon discovered that most of Classen’s cattle had been rounded up and driven away. The job had been done two or three days earlier, according to signs. There was little use in trailing the cattle now, for they would be far across the New Mexico line before anyone could catch them.

  The angry fingers pointed toward Curly Kirkendall. Yet there was puzzled uncertainty among the little ranchmen. Curly hadn’t bothered them since the big outfits had formed their association. Most of them figured the rustler was laying off them to help discourage them from joining with the big brands.

  But the bloody tragedy of Jock Classen gave Scott Tillman a burning new hope that he might be able to pull the big outfits and the little ones together. Maybe this was what they needed to show them that their only hope was in unity. At Scott’s word, Lazy D riders spurred out all over the high country with word that there would be a meeting in Peace Valley after Jock Classen was buried.

  Jock’s funeral didn’t last long. There weren’t any relatives to mourn for him, and Jock had never given the minister a chance to get acquainted with him. So there wasn’t much to do but read from the Book and lower the long pine box into the grave that had been cut down through the thick plains sod.

  Anxiously, Scott scanned the crowd. Almost every ranchman in the high country was there—all of them but Clive Bannock. And he was one they would need most.

  Doug McKinney’s gaze, suspicious and half-hostile, had rested on Scott through much of the service. “All right, Scott, you’ve gotten us here. Where’s your friend Bannock? Any agreement you make won’t be worth a dime unless he’s a party to it.”

  Worriedly, Scott looked back over his shoulder, studying the thin wagon trail that led off in the direction of Bannock’s land. “He’ll get here directly, Doug. He promised he would. What do you say we go on down to the meeting house?”

  For an hour or more they waited there in the gentle shade of a cottonwood motte along the creek. The men whittled, spat, and talked in low voices. A restlessness began to move through them like the vague unrest that stirs a herd of cattle when it begins to sense a coming storm. Time and again Scott Tillman glanced up the trail for sign of Clive Bannock, but he didn’t see him. It looked as if some of the men were about ready to leave.

  Scott got up and stood in front of the group.

  “I can’t figure what’s keeping Clive Bannock. He sent me word he’d be here. While we’re waiting, we might as well go on and talk.

  “This thing shocked all of us, big or small. It could happen again. The only way we can scotch it is to work together. Fighting separately, we can’t stop it.

  “I know a lot of you have been afraid of our association. You’ve thought it was a big men’s trick to cheat you. But it isn’t, I guarantee you that. Pull together, and we can clean out High Land and its thieves and throat-cutters. We can get us an honest government in this county, and we can make this country grow.

  “Every man in this association will have an equal voice. Doesn’t matter whether he has a hundred cows or ten thousand. Every association member here will vouch for that.”

  Doug McKinney frowned. “What about Bannock? Will you vouch for him?”

  Hope was rising in Scott Tillman. In the faces of the men before him he could see the beginnings of agreement. They would get their association now, one that would be worth something. And because of it, the high country would be worth more, too.

  “Yes, Doug, we’ll vouch for him.”

  McKinney nodded, evidently satisfied. “All right, Scott. I guess it’s the only way. Where do you want me to sign?”

  One after another, the small ranchmen signed their names on the long, white sheet of paper. Scott and three other charter members watched, smiles carved deep in their wind-tanned faces.

  Hoofbeats pounded along the wagon trail as the last men were signing. Clive Bannock rode in. Four of his men were behind him, and young Fletch Bannock rode at his side, the silver of his polished gun glinting in the sunshine.

  Heavy Clive Bannock rested his big hands on the horn of his saddle. A dry grin spread across his wide face that was badly in need of a shave. “Looks like you’re doing fine, Tillman. I’m right proud of you.”

  Irritated, Doug McKinney stepped forward. “I’d’ve thought you’d be here, Bannock.”

  The dry grin was still on Bannock’s face. “That end of the business I leave to Tillman. There’s just one thing I wanted to tell you men.”

  Bannock’s forced grin suddenly faded out, and Scott felt a quick, vague uneasiness.

  Bannock said, “Jock Classen is dead. He didn’t own his land; he just took it. So the way I see it, his place is open for the first man who steps in and pre-empts it.

  “I’ve had my men moving my cattle over there today. I want every man here to know that Jock Classen’s place is mine now. And I stand ready to back up that statement with whatever it takes.”

  For the space of time it takes a man’s face to flare and his fists to harden into knots, there was stunned silence among the ranchmen.

  Then Doug McKinney exploded into fury. He whirled first on Scott. “So you were going to vouch for him! Well, you have. You helped him get us all here so there wouldn’t be anybody to stop him from taking Classen’s land.”

  McKinney’s hand fell upon the long sheet of paper the men had signed. He tore it in half and quartered it. Then he turned on Bannock.

  “This time we’ll stop you, Bannock. You’ve pushed us as far as we’re going to g
o.”

  Fury rode Scott Tillman. But caution held a tight rein. He saw the cold spark that began to play in Fletch Bannock’s hard young eyes, and sensed the easy downward movement of Bannock’s hand.

  “Do you think you’re big enough to whip the Slash B, McKinney?” Clive Bannock demanded coldly.

  “Not alone, maybe. But we can do it together. That’s what Scott Tillman said. But we’ll start our own association, Bannock. We’ll whip all of you before we’re done.”

  Scott saw the sudden clench of Fletch Bannock’s teeth a second before the boy spurred his horse forward. Fletch’s big gray slammed into McKinney and sent him sprawling. The boy had his gun in his hand and was waiting, a steely grin crawling along his lip.

  “Don’t do it, Doug!” Scott yelled as McKinney’s gun came out of the holster. He swung his booted foot and sent the pistol spinning out of McKinney’s hand.

  “Don’t you see he’s trying to kill you?”

  But McKinney’s face was flushed scarlet. He jumped to his feet, and with a rush spun Scott back against a cottonwood tree. Scott gasped at the driving weight of McKinney’s fist high in his chest. He brought his own fist up, almost from the ground, and felt it jerk McKinney’s head back like the popping of a whip. The ranchman sagged, clutching vainly for the tree to hold him up.

  Scott turned on the Bannocks, his bruised hands trembling in anger. “Go on, Clive. Get out of here before this turns into a slaughterhouse.”

  Disappointment twisted Fletch Bannock’s slick face. His lips curled under the fuzzy imitation of a mustache.

  “Maybe you’d like to try something, Tillman.”

  Breathing hard, Scott met the kid’s hostile stare.

  “Come on, Fletch,” said his father curtly. “We’re through here.”

  Scott watched them go, his hopes dissolved, his skin flinching under the hostile stares of the small ranchmen who stood around him. Bannock had killed his cause, and had done it on purpose.

  “You’re through, all right.” Scott muttered. “You may not know it, but you’re through.”

  Scott Tillman usually knew where Curly Kirkendall could be found. Instead of riding straight back to the Lazy D, he angled west. The bitterness sank deeper and deeper into him as he rode. At dusk he drew rein before a carelessly built dugout that had been carved into the side of a hill and roofed over with sod. The front of it was made of mud-chinked poles, piled one on another in log-cabin fashion. A couple of wild-animal hides and a black-bottomed washtub hung beside the solid plank door, the prairie wind rocking them gently from one side to the other.

  A man afoot suddenly appeared in front of Scott. He held a shotgun.

  “Who are you, and what the hell do you want?”

  Calmly, because he had been here before, Scott said, “I’m Scott Tillman. Tell Curly I want to see him.”

  In a moment the dugout door swung inward and Curly Kirkendall appeared in a frame of yellow lamplight. “Get down and come in, Scott. Bryce, take his horse.”

  Scott shook hands and sat in a rawhide bottomed chair inside the musty dugout. Without saying much, he smoked a cigarette and studied Curly’s laughing face.

  “Well,” the rustler said good naturedly, “what did you come for this time, Scott? To tell me again that I’m heading up a blind canyon and to warn me about the booger man?”

  Scott shook his head. “No, I’ve done that enough already, and it never does any good. It’s something else this time.”

  He leaned forward, snuffing out his cigarette on the leg of his chair and frowning darkly. “You know about Jock Classen, I guess.”

  Kirkendall’s smile left him. “I know about it.”

  “Shot in the back, too. That didn’t look to me like your brand of work, Curly.”

  “I didn’t do it, Scott. None of my men had a hand in it.”

  Relieved, Scott leaned back again. “I didn’t think you did. But I wanted to hear you say it. Do you know who it was?”

  Cautiously Curly replied, “Maybe. But it ain’t for me to say. There’s too many people around High Land that know too much about me. Was I to go to working my jaw too much, they might start talking, too.”

  Scott argued, “Curly, I know we’re enemies, theoretically. But we’ve been friends a long time, too. You know that whatever you tell me here tonight won’t go any farther than this dugout. Lots of people think you killed Classen. If I knew who really did it, it might be of help to you.”

  Curly ran his hand thoughtfully through his unruly red hair, his indecision apparently painful to him. Then he said, “It was some of that High Land bunch. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “But I thought you had High Land pretty well in hand, Curly. I didn’t think you’d let anybody get away with something as bad as what happened to Jock.”

  Curly asked, “How long since you’ve been in High Land, Scott?”

  “Four months. Maybe five. I carry all my business down to Peace Valley.”

  “Then maybe you ought to make a little run into High Land some day and get the sleep out of your eyes. You’ll find out somebody else is dealing the hands there now. Fact of the matter is, it’s got kind of unhealthy for me of late.

  “Oh, it’s the same old bunch, mostly. But they’re listening to somebody else now. He tells them he’s going to run this whole country, and if they string along with him, they’ll all help sop up the gravy.”

  Scott Tillman cursed under his breath. The ugly shape of the thing was beginning to come clear to him now. He told Curly what had happened in Peace Valley.

  “I’ve been blind, Curly. I’ve been figuring you for the worst enemy we had. And all the time I’ve overlooked one a dozen times worse. Doug McKinney has seen it all along, but it’s too late for me to talk to him now.

  “Bannock’s playing it both ways from the middle. He’ll whip out the little outfits first, and all the big outfits will get the blame; he’ll see that you get some of it, like you did with Jock Classen. And when he’s done with the little outfits, he’ll have High Land’s bunch with him to whittle down the big ranches.”

  Curly nodded, a grimness shoving aside his humor. “That’s the way I see it.” An ironic grin came to the outlaw’s face. “Pretty picture, isn’t it, Scott? You couldn’t warn anybody now. After today there’s nobody would listen to you.

  “And if I was to try to warn them, they’d just haul me down to a handy cottonwood and make my neck longer.”

  * * *

  Reining up at the Lazy D’s rock barn, Scott unsaddled and turned his horse loose. He pulled the heavy watch out of his pocket and slanted it so the dim moonlight revealed the hands. Past midnight. But up in the big rock house a dim light still glowed behind the curtains.

  Quietly Scott pushed open the door of the bunkhouse and felt his way through the darkness to his bunk. He heard someone rouse and turn over in a cot back in the corner.

  “That you, Scott?” came Dick Coleridge’s sleepy voice. “Mrs. Dixon said tell you she wants to talk to you. She said it was important, and she’d wait up.”

  Scott hesitated. “Wonder what’s the matter?”

  Dick sat up in bed and rolled a cigarette. “I don’t know. But Doug McKinney was here. He looked mad enough to bust.”

  Uneasily Scott walked up the slope to the big house and knocked on the door. Wilma Dixon’s slender shadow fell across the curtain that covered the oval glass on the door. The door swung inward.

  “Come in, Scott.”

  The pleasant smell of coffee was heavy in the room. Silently Wilma went into the kitchen and came back with a cup for him and a cup for herself. She didn’t speak until she had sipped most of her coffee. But her deep blue eyes rested on him. There was a vague unhappiness in them.

  “Doug McKinney was here today,” she said presently, looking down. “He told me what happened at Peace Valley.”

  Scott put his empty cup on a small side table and stood up, looking bleakly across the room. “He can’t believe I didn’t help Clive Bannoc
k plan that steal on Jock Classen’s ranch, can he?”

  Wilma shook her head. She rose to her feet. Scott saw her lips tremble. “No, Scott, he can’t. And he gave me a pretty hard choice.”

  She walked toward him. There was a faint glistening in her blue eyes. She took hold of his arms and pulled close to him.

  “Kiss me, Scott,” she spoke softly.

  He protested weakly. “But, Wilma…”

  She said again, “Kiss me,” and stretched up toward him. He folded his arms about her and kissed her with gentleness. She stepped back then, and he could see disappointment in her eyes.

  “You don’t love me, do you, Scott?”

  He lowered his eyes. “I like you, Wilma. But that’s all there is.”

  She nodded and turned half away. “I guess I’ve known it for a long time, deep down. But Doug loves me. And maybe I love him, too. I don’t know. As long as you’re around, I don’t know anything for sure.

  Scott picked up his hat, almost crushing it in his hands. His gaze was still on the door. “Then I guess you want me to go.”

  Wilma shook her head, her eyes brimming with tears. “No, Scott, I don’t want you to. But I’m afraid it’s the only way.”

  Stiffly she walked to the rolltop desk in the corner of the parlor and picked up a piece of paper. It was a check, filled out. It was a big one.

  “This ought to take care of anything we owe you, shouldn’t it, Scott?”

  Nodding, he said, “Sure. I’ll be gone in the morning.”

  Her voice was breaking when she called him at the door. “Scott, please don’t hate me.”

  “No, Wilma,” he answered tightly. “I couldn’t hate you. There was nothing else you could do.”