Travis

by T. T. Flynn

  Several men glanced at the newcomer without recognition. Then one man midway to the bar nudged his neighbor and spoke under his breath. Curt Lomis turned his head, stared, and opened his mouth to say something—then closed it silently. His heavy, good-natured face showed nothing. His eyes bored across the bar with an unspoken question. Another man looked, exclaimed—“I’ll be damned!”—and quickly fell silent.

  Tom got it suddenly. They were afraid he’d escaped and was dodging the law. Curt Lomis, and old Sam Dodge, near the rear of the bar, didn’t want to give him away. “Hello, Curt. Howdy, Sam,” Tom greeted. “Good to see you again.” He answered their unspoken question for all to hear. “The governor let me out. I’ll be around here from now on.”

  “You son of a gun!” Curt Lomis burst out. “Ain’t that luck! Great to see you, Tom! Shake. What’ll you drink?”

  Old Sam Dodge, who had helped push the Indians out of this territory and later had strung some of the first wire, jumped up and grabbed Tom’s hand. “This’s worth a big drunk.” Sam cackled. “I’m settin’ ’em up. Name it, men . . . an’ down it for Tom Fortune’s luck!”

  “Get outta this, Sam,” warned Curt Lomis good-naturedly. “I got my say in first. On the house, boys. Sam can foller, if he’s minded. Whiskey, Tom?”

  Tom was grinning as he nodded. Warmth flooded over the bitterness. All men had not forgotten him.

  Curt Lomis poured the drink himself. The bartender jumped for the orders down the bar. And one man stepped back, sneering, as Tom lifted his whiskey. Short, dark, and lean, with a black mustache, black string tie, and broadcloth suit, this was the same fancy-dressed Mort Classner who had been cashier of the bank before Timmins, the former bank president, had been killed. Classner’s clipped, high-pitched voice had not changed. “I’m not drinking to the man convicted of killing Timmins. I’m damned particular whose health I drink . . . governor or no governor.”

  Classner walked out through an uneasy silence.

  Tom put his glass back on the bar. The lines had deepened in his hardening face as the bitterness surged back. “Maybe he speaks for more of you,” Tom suggested quietly. “I’ll save anyone the trouble of saying so. Drink to Curt Lomis, gents, and forget about me.” Tom coughed from the unaccustomed bite of liquor, and said: “Curt, I want to talk to you a minute. Mind stepping in the back room?”

  “Sure, Tom.”

  In the back room, Curt Lomis cursed Mort Classner. “Forget that skunk, Tom. He don’t count. Bein’ president of the bank has blowed his head up to balloon size.”

  Tom shrugged. “‘He’s got a right to his opinion. Forget him yourself. I was wondering if you knew where I could find Dan Walker.”

  Curt Lomis was suddenly embarrassed. “He’s mostly around, Tom. Try the Fish Hook Bar.”

  “Does a lot of drinking now, I hear.”

  “Some.”

  “I came by the ranch, Curt. Strangers were there. Fellow named Lope Larsen said he was running the place for the Hookers . . . whoever they are. What’s happened?”

  “Didn’t Walker let you know?”

  “Nope. A few months ago, he wrote he was still trying to sell.”

  Curt Lomis shook his head helplessly. “You’ll have to ask Walker. All anybody knows is that the Hookers bought the XO. Walker seemed satisfied.”

  “What about the Hookers?”

  Curt leaned forward in his chair. “Bent Hooker and his two brothers. The brothers rode in here from Texas an’ settled soon after you left. Bent Hooker, Dude Hooker, and Kid Hooker, all cut out of the same snakeskin. Dude Hooker’s the sharp one. He started the Fish Hook Bar. Kid Hooker’s the mean one. He bought the Rolling N, west of your ranch. Wasn’t long before he had the title to the Bar K, south of him. The bank foreclosed on the Bar K, an’ the Hookers bought it from the bank.”

  “What kind of a sheriff is Bent Hooker making?”

  “Good enough at first. He collected rewards on some outlaws an’ killed a couple. Some folks still think his record looks good.”

  “What do others think?”

  Curt Lomis shrugged. “They think anybody who stands well with the Hookers can purty well write their own ticket. And anyone who don’t stand so well gets short words from Bent Hooker an’ his deputies . . . an’ trouble if they don’t look out.” Curt scowled. “The Hookers are cuttin’ themselves slices of Sundown range as fast as they can keep the knife sharp,” he continued. “They’ve lined up a lot of greedy fools behind ’em, so the opposition ain’t so easy. Bent Hooker came here first an’ dug in. Then his brothers came and started to work fast. Before long, if it ain’t stopped, the Sundown range’ll jump when the Hookers crack the whip, an’ it’ll be too late to do anything about it. Tom, this range now is like a pile of powder waiting for a spark. An’ when it hits, hell will pop.”

  “Who’s this Angus Gaylord who bought the Murphy Ranch?”

  “Nevada man. The bank was squeezing Murphy hard and he sold cheap. Gaylord’s a widower with a daughter who’s about the pertest little piece who ever shook a curl this side of the Jawbones.” Curt chuckled. “More sparkin’s being tried around her than any woman can hold out ag’in’ long.”

  Tom smiled. “I cut her trail, and got an idea the Gaylords were bristling at the XO bunch.”

  “Uhn-huh, I’ve heard so. It ain’t hard to understand. Kid Hooker’s a conceited young jackass. Figures all the women must like him. He shined up to Betty Gaylord an’ got chased off that pasture so fast he didn’t even taste the grass. And he’s mean, Tom, when he’s crossed. I’m guessing the Hookers want that Gaylord Ranch anyway. It’d fit neat alongside your XO.”

  “So they’re makin’ ranchin’ hard for the Gaylords?”

  “So far they’ve had everything their way, Tom. And easy meat never cured a sheep-killin’ dog. What do you aim to do?”

  “Have a talk with Dan Walker. See you later, Curt.”

  * * * * *

  The Fish Hook Bar was well lighted inside, busy with trade. A sullenly pretty girl in a red dress was playing a piano at the back. Two bartenders were on duty; the one Tom spoke to jerked his thumb toward the back.

  “Walker’s there by the piano.”

  Tom ignored the stares as he walked to the back table where Dan Walker stared past a whiskey bottle at the red-clad girl playing the piano. Tom had taken a seat before Dan Walker recognized him.

  Walker’s jaw dropped; his eyes popped. Panicky fear entered his bloodshot eyes. “Tom!”

  “Yeah, Dan. I was let out.”

  Dan Walker slopped a drink with a shaking hand and gulped the whiskey. He shuddered, looked with fearful fascination at the man across the table. His face had gone thin and sharp. His bloodshot eyes were uneasy.

  “I stopped by the ranch,” Tom said.

  Dan Walker moistened his lips. “You . . . you know it’s gone then, Tom.”

  “Yes.”

  “The bank took it on the notes.”

  “We had enough beef coming along to meet those notes.”

  Dan Walker gulped another drink. “Not when the notes come due, Tom. I . . . I played the fool gambling here. The bank took over an’ sold to the Hookers.” Walker’s mouth worked in self-pity. “I was ashamed to write you, Tom. I figured I could make it up to you. Twenty years was a long time.”

  “A hell of a long time,” Tom agreed woodenly. “No use in my telling you what a weak-livered skunk you turned out to be. This Hooker bunch got our ranch. What the hell are you hanging around them now for?”

  “They’ve been helpin’ me along, Tom. Chances are they’ll give you a job. Most any day now I aim to start ridin’ for them. Like to meet my girl? I kinda thought Rose an’ I’d be married, but I guess there ain’t any use now. Wait’ll she finishes that song.”

  This booze-wrecked man wasn’t Dan Walker. Tom stood up. “Got to go, Dan. I’ll see you later.”

  As if she had been waiting for him to get up, the girl in the red dress finished with a crash of cords and swung around
on the piano stool. She was young enough, but hard and sullenly antagonistic as her bold eyes took him in.

  “Who’s your friend, Danny?” she asked.

  “Tom Fortune, my old partner, Rose. Come an’ meet him. Tom . . .”

  Then, cutting through the talk at the bar, a voice bawled with harsh satisfaction: “Now, Fortune, I’m gonna whip hell out of you, like I promised!”

  IV

  The red-bearded Larsen was stalking in from outside with a six-gun in his hand. Following him were the bowlegged Shorty and two more of the XO riders. And behind the three strolled a bony-faced young man with a cold, shrewd look of prosperity centering around a dazzling white, pleated shirt bosom in which a big diamond stickpin glinted coldly.

  Dan Walker jumped to his feet, begging huskily: “Don’t start a ruckus, Tom! That’s Dude Hooker an’ some of the XO men! They don’t trifle!”

  The girl in the red dress snapped: “Shut up, Dan! Let’s see how this tough Tom Fortune handles the Hookers.”

  She was mocking, Tom realized, but it didn’t matter. Bitterness lashed again as Tom saw men tensing at the bar to duck when the shooting started. They thought he was packing a gun. Larsen didn’t think it. Dude Hooker, elegant and unruffled, paused to light a cheroot, and backed against the bar with amused expectancy. And Tom heard his own thick voice saying: “I told you I didn’t want any trouble, Larsen.”

  Larsen was grinning, scenting sport now as he shoved the gun back to Shorty.

  “You shot off your mouth once too often, feller. I oughta gun-whip you . . . but I’ll let you off with a beatin’.”

  “I don’t want any trouble,” Tom repeated.

  Men present had known the old Tom Fortune. One of them swore disgustedly: “By God, I believe they whipped him down in the pen!”

  “I’ll finish it, boys!” promised Larsen.

  Tom backed off, and Larsen’s first smashing blow knocked him reeling against the bar.

  “The more you run, the harder I’ll whup you!” Larsen whooped.

  The girl in the red dress called scornfully to Dan Walker: “So that’s the partner you’ve been boasting about!”

  Dizzily Tom saw the grinning spectators closing around. They’d seen Tom Fortune’s measure taken. They were ready for the sport now. And Dude Hooker, cheroot cocked at an angle, climbed on a chair to see better. Hooker grinned as Larsen jumped in for another blow.

  Tom knocked the fist aside, and suddenly Larsen didn’t matter so much. Larsen was only a Hooker man. It was the Hookers who mattered—the Hookers who had swallowed that little XO Ranch, who had climbed on Sundown’s neck like Dude Hooker had climbed on that chair, who grabbed ranches, watched their men bully peaceful people, drove away friends like Big Steve Murphy, made girls like Betty Gaylord miserable . . .

  Prison work had toughened Tom’s muscles. Tom struck past Larsen’s clumsy guard. His swinging fist crushed Larsen’s mouth. Larsen sprawled on the floor and scrambled up again, spurting blood from his nose.

  Gone now was Tom’s prison fear. Get Larsen! Get the Hookers! Larsen was tough. The bloody nose didn’t slow him. He stood his ground. Toe to toe they slugged.

  The wild surge of the fight entered the crowd. Men yelled encouragement and advice. Larsen ducked in close, caught Tom in a bear hug, and kicked up. Tom blocked the knee with a down chop of his hand, stamped his sharp boot heel on Larsen’s instep, drove his head into Larsen’s face, fought free, and slammed in again, fists driving.

  The crowd surged back, opened up to the reeling, stumbling rushes. They knocked over chairs and a table. Both were gasping, slowing down. Larsen clinched again and they fell to the floor. Larsen tried to thumb out an eye. Tom grabbed the wrist with both hands, snapped it back so hard Larsen howled with pain and fell over to ease the pressure. They broke free and lunged up to their feet—and Larsen’s hand flashed back out of sight and jerked forward with a knife.

  Tom scrambled back from the ripping knife blade. A foot tripped him back against the bar; his head bounced off the bar edge and he collapsed, half-stunned, rolling helplessly.

  Larsen’s foot crushed into his ribs. “I’ll break you up!” gasped Larsen, kicking again.

  “That’s enough, Larsen!”

  The harsh order ripped against the quick quiet. From the floor Tom hazily saw the bearded stranger who had jammed a gun against Larsen’s side.

  Larsen was half a head taller, fifty pounds heavier, and wildly dangerous as a bull compared to the curt, bearded stranger who had drawn that gun from under his coat, who spoke coldly, contemptuously. “I saw him tripped, Larsen. You started out to whip him with your hands. Drop that knife!”

  No one spoke. The blood left Larsen’s face. His hand opened and the knife fell near Tom’s shoulders.

  “This ain’t your business, Gaylord!”

  The crowd stirred to let Dude Hooker through. The man’s elegant calm had not changed. He gestured with the cigar to punctuate his words. “Who asked you in here, Gaylord? You’re butting in something that don’t concern you. Get out!”

  Tom crawled shakily to his feet, his side hurting, his head still groggy. All of them were taller than Gaylord, yet there was a stern indignation about the smaller man that forced attention. Gaylord had no fear. He took the gun muzzle away from Larsen and turned to Dude Hooker. “Any man that doesn’t get a square deal is my concern,” Gaylord said heavily. “I saw Larsen start this, and then fall shy of being man enough to finish it. Are you trying to start something with me, Hooker?”

  Dude Hooker smiled easily. “If you’re looking for a chance to throw lead into me, Gaylord, I’m only telling you that you ain’t wanted in the Fish Hook Bar. Take your trade somewhere else. That’s a fair an’ reasonable request. Most men’d just get throwed out as troublemakers.”

  Again Tom was struck by the heavy calm of this man, Gaylord, who must be the father of Betty Gaylord. Gaylord seemed sheathed in a deliberate, unhurried strength. “I doubt, Hooker, if you would know what was fair and reasonable. Nothing I’ve seen since I settled here points to it. But you own the Fish Hook, and I’ll be pleased to keep out of it. I’ll be going as soon as Fortune tells me things are settled to his liking.”

  Tom bit off the reply he was about to make; his eyes narrowed at sight of the tall, saturnine man who pushed through the crowd.

  Bent Hooker was in his shirtsleeves, his vest hanging open, his pearl-handled gun tied low. The sheriff’s star was pinned to his vest. He had not changed in two and a half years. He was still sharp-eyed and taciturn, still smooth and watchful, as if always looking for the other man to get off guard and vulnerable.

  “Trouble?” asked Bent Hooker, and without warning his gun flipped out, covering Tom. His manner was icily curt. “So you came back, Fortune? I had word from the prison they’d turned you out.”

  “So you came looking for me with a gun?”

  “When’d you hit town, Fortune, and which way’d you ride in?”

  Tom told him “From the XO.”

  “Sure about that?”

  “Ask Larsen! I stopped there.”

  “That right, Larsen?” Hooker asked.

  Larsen grunted: “Yeah, he come by the ranch. Never could find what he wanted. Made out he thought he still owned part of the XO. Shot off his mouth until I told him to take off his gun an’ I’d tame him down quick.”

  Tom hit out: “What’s the idea of saying I had a gun?”

  “You calling me a liar on it?” Larsen snapped. “The hands saw you!”

  Bent Hooker gestured for quiet. “Nobody ever saw you without a gun before you went to the pen, Fortune. If there were witnesses at the XO, we can settle that good enough. What time was he there, Larsen?”

  “About three o’clock,” Larsen decided.

  “Another damn lie!” Tom flung out.

  “That’ll be enough outta you, Fortune,” Bent Hooker warned angrily. “You’ll have your chance to prove any statements. I just come from the courthouse, where we got word the sta
ge was held up out on the Boulder road just before dark. Two lady passengers an’ a drummer were run off on foot, and the stage horses were cut loose an’ run away. Your description pretty well fits one of the men. The Boulder road ain’t more’n eight miles from the XO. Fortune, where were you between three o’clock an’ half an hour ago when you showed up here in Sundown?”

  A snapping trap must feel like this, Tom thought, one sudden, stunning moment of helplessness. Larsen was sneering. Dude Hooker was smiling thinly while Bent Hooker stood, dour and gimlet-eyed. Excitement flared in the ring of watchers, exclamations, low oaths, comments that were quickly ominous.

  Tom looked around. Some of the men he had known, some were strangers—and their thoughts were plain on their faces. “Some of you used to know me,” Tom said to them. “You know nobody ever called me a liar and made it stick.”

  Dude Hooker reminded easily: “You mean before you went to the pen, Fortune.”

  “Somebody’s made a mistake. Just before dark I was on XO land, eight miles away from the Boulder road. I couldn’t have been near that stage.”

  Bent Hooker snapped: “Larsen says it was three o’clock. Says his men’ll back it up. You can’t come straight from state prison an’ stack your word against a bunch of men straight enough to keep outta trouble.”

  “He doesn’t need to. I say he was near the XO ranch house just before dark.”

  That was Gaylord speaking, Gaylord standing there, calm and deliberate as ever, his gun still out, his bearded face revealing no expression. And the man still seemed to command respect from most of the watchers.

  Red flooded Bent Hooker’s face. “What do you know about this, Gaylord?”

  “My daughter met Fortune within half a mile of the XO ranch house just before dark.”

  Larsen glowered. Dude Hooker began to chew his cigar and frown.

  “She did?” muttered Bent Hooker. “How come your daughter met him on XO land thataway?”