Travis

by T. T. Flynn

Bullets had crashed into the big bar mirror and bottles on the backbar. Liquor reeked against the raw smell of burned powder, and one of the white-coated barmen stood up cautiously, saw he was in no danger, and blurted over the bar: “If you had to kill ’em, why didn’t you ketch ’em out in the street? There’ll be merry hell to pay for this!”

  Men were edging in through the swinging doors. Sam Dodge pushed in, saw Tom kneeling at the back, and yelled: “Need any help, Tom?”

  “Get a doctor, Sam. Gaylord’s shot. Get some friends of Gaylord’s in here, too!”

  Two of the men Gaylord had been talking to were already there. Tom knew them slightly—Taylor, who ran the TR brand on Hickory Creek, and Bob Lundgren, who ran half a dozen freight wagons for hire. Taylor was almost angry.

  “You sure tore up hell inside here without warning, Fortune. Didn’t wait long after you got back, either.”

  Gaylord mumbled: “He was helping me.”

  Tom caught a full whiskey glass off the bar and knelt to get fiery strength in the wounded man. He hadn’t thought much about what would happen after he got inside the saloon doors. Now it was plain many men still didn’t realize what had happened. They’d heard his call to Ben Tag start the trouble, and now they’d be willing to lay the cause on Tom Fortune, just back from the pen, where he’d been sent for killing another man.

  At the front of the bar, a call warned: “Watch the talk, men! Lady comin’!”

  She came with a breathless little rush, pale, eyes frightened as she saw her father on the floor. “What have you done to him?” She saw the dead man and gasped.

  “Ben Tag shot him,” Tom told her, poker-faced. “He’ll be all right.”

  “You started this! You were looking for trouble when you left us across the street! Oh, why couldn’t they have kept you in a cell so that decent people would have been safe?”

  Gaylord reached weakly for one of her hands. “Betty, Fortune’ll explain . . . Is that doctor coming? I’m bleeding pretty badly.”

  Sam Dodge burst in ahead of Doc Kennedy. The medico was smooth-faced, kindly, and shrewd. He panted as he knelt and began a quick examination, and fired questions.

  “Carry him to my office,” Doc Kennedy ordered. “I’ll try to get that bleeding stopped. Do it better there. Hello, Tom. I heard you were back. Too bad this sort of thing had to come up right away.”

  Doc Kennedy had been a friend for years, had said at Tom’s trial that he believed they were trying an innocent man. His friendly hand resting for a moment on Tom’s arm brought a slight lump in Tom’s throat.

  Sam Dodge ranged alongside. “Got a few of Gaylord’s friends around now, Tom. What’n tarnation come off so quick? Le’s get outta here. There’s Hooker men showin’ up. You can tell me on the way to the doc’s office.”

  Bent Hooker was out of town with his posse, and Dude Hooker had not appeared. No one tried to stop them. Sam Dodge listened attentively as they walked and Tom told what had happened.

  “Sounds like a Hooker trick. Reckon Dan Walker’s got guts enough left to stand up to the Hookers with that story?”

  “You’ll have to ask Dan that, Sam.”

  “You bet I will. Listen, Tom . . . git your hoss tied back of the Diamond Bar. This is a Hooker town. Can’t tell what’ll happen.”

  “Chances are my goose is cooked, anyway,” Tom said evenly. “I’ve made a start and I aim to try to finish it. If Dan Walker’ll hold to his story, it’s time to go after the Hookers. Ask him. Tell Curt Lomis. I want a rifle and some cartridges. If there’s any chance of getting help, we can bust the Hookers with a short rope.”

  Sam Dodge’s seamed old face split in a delighted grin. “Son, talk like that is what I’ve been itchin’ to hear fer many a long day. I’ve dang’ near oiled up my guns an’ started out to try it alone. I’ll see you back of the Diamond Bar.”

  VI

  The hostler at the livery stable had heard the shooting. He asked questions as Tom saddled and paid the bill. He got short answers that told him little and stood staring as Tom rode away.

  Curt Lomis was waiting in the starlight behind the Diamond Bar. “Just got word from the doc’s office, Tom. They’re going to carry Gaylord home in his buggy. Sam Dodge says if you’ll help Bob Lundgren get the buggy home, he’ll bring some friends out there for a talk tonight.”

  “Good a place as any,” Tom decided. “Gaylord’s shot-up hip’ll talk faster than a mouthful of words. Where’s that other man I shot?”

  “I heard he run outta town as fast as he could get a horse an’ ride. Must’ve thought you and some of Gaylord’s friends’d be after him.”

  “Got any idea who he was?”

  “He shows up a lot with Ben Tag. I’ve heard him called Curly, and then again Curly Wolf. He allows he’s a curly wolf primed to snap.”

  “About time his teeth were filed.” Tom chuckled. “Where’s Dan Walker?”

  “Haven’t seen him. Here’s a carbine an’ three boxes of shells that Sam said you wanted. Good luck, Tom.”

  “Thanks,” Tom said, and added as he reined his horse around to leave: “Chances are I’ll be needing it.”

  * * * * *

  Bob Lundgren was getting out of a comfortable, dusty buggy in front of Doc Kennedy’s little frame office. A small crowd loitered before the door. Tom caught more than one scowl as he sat on the horse with the rifle ready across his legs. No one stepped out to speak to him or called a greeting. Most of them seemed to be Hooker sympathizers, and those who weren’t showed no desire for open friendship with the solitary rider who watched them from his horse. This was how it was to be prison-branded and marked as a killer. You stood apart from others. Give a dog a bad name . . . Tom thought bitterly.

  Then the crowd parted to let two men carry Angus Gaylord out to the buggy. Betty Gaylord followed with Doc Kennedy. She got in the driver’s seat. Bob Lundgren climbed in the other side to support the wounded man on the hard ride.

  “Take it easy,” Doc Kennedy directed. “I’ll be out first thing in the morning.”

  Sam Dodge wasn’t there; Dan Walker hadn’t appeared; none of the Hooker brothers was in the crowd. Betty Gaylord didn’t look out of the buggy to say a word until she gathered up the reins, and her face had no friendliness.

  The matched sorrels moved carefully off, and Tom turned in the saddle as a rider galloped up from behind. Then Tom was grinning, reining over to meet the big, bony hand thrust out to his hand.

  “Leatherneck, you no-account old horse thief!”

  “Tom, whyn’t you let me know you was comin’? Gosh, it’s good to see you!” Leatherneck Jones was as raw-boned, angular as ever, as sloppily dressed, with the usual tobacco bulge in one cheek, and a big Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his corded neck as he talked. The same old flap-brimmed black hat, turned up in front, perched rakishly on Leatherneck’s head. His angular face grinned from ear to ear.

  “I’d like to buy the drinks,” Tom said. “But we’re riding out to Gaylord’s place.”

  Leatherneck turned his head and spat. “Sam Dodge ast me would I go along. Said you were here, an’ I almost tromped him down gettin’ started.” Leatherneck cocked his head, lowered his voice. “Sam says hell is cookin’ and ’most ready to serve.”

  “We’ll have a better idea by morning.”

  Leatherneck spat again. “I’ve got a good idea by now. Hell, the way things have been goin’! I wisht Three-Finger Jack was here. We’ve both been itchin’ to do something about the dirty deal that sent you to the pen.” Leatherneck swore under his breath. “We had to watch Kid Hooker feed Dan Walker likker, an’ see the gal that sings at the Fish Hook Bar play Dan till the poor devil didn’t know whether he was drunk or in love. The Hookers got the XO an’ we quit. Three-Finger an’ I are backin’ you in anything, Tom.”

  “It’s bigger than me now,” Tom said. “It’s Gaylord’s and Sam Dodge’s friends against the Hookers. I’m only helping.”

  Their voices were audible to the occupants of th
e smoothly rolling buggy alongside. Betty Gaylord’s pent-up anger burst out through the night at them.

  “It’s clear who’s bringing shooting and killing into all this! I don’t want you two to ride home with us! Won’t you go back?”

  Gaylord’s weaker voice protested. The words weren’t understandable, but Betty Gaylord’s reply was pitched to reach them. “Father, you’re almost helpless now. There’s no one but me at home to take charge, and I don’t want this gun-crazy stranger bringing more trouble.”

  “Ma’am,” Tom said, “you weren’t shying off from trouble so much when you met me on the XO land this afternoon.”

  Her voice bit back: “That was different!”

  “Kind of different,” Tom agreed. “You were het up and on the prod then, and knew none of the Hooker men would do anything to a woman, no matter what you tried.”

  “I won’t argue with you about it.”

  “I’m not arguing, ma’am. But you saw what happened when your father lifted a finger against the Hookers. They’ve showed their hand now. Chances are they won’t be any too careful of a lady from now on.”

  “Words!” she said angrily. “I saw what happened in front of the hotel. I heard you ask about that man, Ben Tag, and then almost run across the street after him. I only believe what I saw. There wouldn’t have been any trouble if you had stayed out of that saloon. Father wouldn’t have come so near being killed. I wish you’d go back! I don’t want you around!”

  Angus Gaylord found strength to say: “Stop it, Betty. I want Fortune with us. I’ll not have any further talk about it.”

  She said nothing more, but her silence was antagonistic. Bob Lundgren kept his thoughts to himself; Leatherneck preserved a discreet silence.

  The horses trotted smoothly, the buggy creaked and rattled, and overhead the night sky was black and starry. Mile after mile dropped behind. They met no one on the road. Angus Gaylord made no sound, although the lurching of the buggy must have caused him acute pain.

  They turned off the road, passed the first wire gate of the Murphy Ranch, and in half an hour more rounded a low, piñon-covered hill and sighted the lighted windows of the bunkhouse. Steve Murphy had hauled sawed lumber to build his ranch house. The galvanized iron roof looked silver in the starlight, and Betty Gaylord hurried in to light lamps and get a bed ready for the wounded man.

  Tom helped get Gaylord out; the bearded man’s voice showed he had suffered during the ride.

  “Stay around, Fortune,” Gaylord urged thickly. “The more I think about this, the less I like it.”

  In the bedroom lamplight, Betty Gaylord’s face was pale, and her eyes were smoldering as she watched Tom help her father on the bed. “Mister Lundgren will help me with him,” she said stiffly. “If you’re going to stay, there are extra bunks in the bunkhouse.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Tom said meekly. And his meek departure seemed to make her angrier.

  Outside, Leatherneck muttered: “That gal would as soon bite a feller’s head off as look at him. I’d shore hate to be feudin’ with her.”

  “I’d rather see her spunky thataway than wringing her hands and crying about hard luck,” Tom said. “She isn’t herself now, anyway.”

  “She’s doing well enough,” grunted Leatherneck.

  Four hands were in the bunkhouse, and there were four extra bunks. The men came out half-dressed to watch the newcomers unsaddle and put up their horses. Tom knew one of them, Pete Brandford, who had ridden for Steve Murphy, and before saddles were hung under the saddle shed, Pete and the others were firing questions about the trouble in town.

  Bob Lundgren drove the buggy out and joined in, while all hands got the sorrel team into the corral and the harness up.

  “This Ben Tag come lookin’ for trouble with Gaylord,” was Bob Lundgren’s verdict. “God knows what’ll come out of tonight, after all the talkin’s done, but it looks to me like the Hookers have shoved chips in a game that calls for a heap more raising before they can take the pot.”

  Pete Brandford cursed. “If Bent Hooker had anything to do with a stage robbery, he oughta be strung up!”

  That was the verdict around the bunch as they adjourned to the bunkhouse for smokes and coffee that the taciturn cook had warmed up in his kitchen.

  Obie was the wizened cook’s name, and presently Betty called him back to the house. Half an hour later he was back through the bunkhouse doorway, with a disgusted look and a sour comment: “If you aim to set up all night makin’ empty talk, I’ll fix some bread an’ meat an’ cut up some cold pie.”

  Pete Brandford grinned. “I take it all back, Obie. You are human, somewhere inside. We oughta have company every night.”

  “If the company was like you, I’d take my soogans an’ walk,” retorted Obie. “Come up to the kitchen door for it. I never hired out to fetch an’ carry grub nights fer a lot of lazy, wind-blattin’ cowhands! An’ don’t come crowdin’ in my kitchen or I’ll let you all starve till morning!”

  Tom laughed as he went out with the others. “That’s the first real home-like talk I’ve heard since I got back. Obie, when I start ranching again, how about coming over to cook for my outfit?”

  Out of the night Obie snapped: “Not ef you hire any of this bunch! They like to drive me crazy! Cain’t satisfy ’em! Never seen sech an outfit. I’m aimin’ to quit on ’em ’most any day.”

  Obie ducked into the shed kitchen behind the house—and over in the corral a horse nickered loudly. Instinctively every man stopped and listened. The horses were bunching on the other side of the corral. One of the Gaylord men spoke softly under his breath: “Somethin’ out there . . . an’ it ain’t any of our caballada driftin’ in. They lit out the other way toward the big draw.”

  “Riders coming,” Tom said suddenly. “Listen . . . they’re coming fast!”

  “Must be some of the men Sam Dodge and the boys scattered to round up,” said Leatherneck.

  “I’ll get my rifle and feel better,” Tom decided abruptly.

  They doubled back to the bunkhouse with him, saying nothing as they grabbed gun belts and rifles and broke out extra cartridges.

  Silence now. It seemed to Tom a new quiet had crept through the night.

  Leatherneck said: “Reckon we was hearin’ nerves, after all?”

  “Look at the horses,” said Tom softly.

  “Ain’t you right! Sam Dodge wouldn’t pull up an’ then come snakin’ along the last half mile. Whatcha think, Tom?”

  “Better tell that cook to put out his light and make himself scarce. I’ll speak to Miss Gaylord.”

  They listened to him, maybe because he had killed a man, or because no one else wanted to take the lead. One man went to the cook house; the others followed Tom’s stride to the back door.

  Betty Gaylord opened the door and listened to Tom’s quick, low-voiced explanation. Her scornful answer held no hesitation.

  “You’re afraid it’s trouble? Of course! I expected it! They want you, if anything! Father can’t stand this. Won’t you please get away from here, Mister Fortune?”

  In another blank uneasy silence, the men shuffled nervously.

  “I’ll pull out,” Tom said grimly. “You men stay here.”

  He was halfway to the bunkhouse when Leatherneck caught up with him. “Where we goin’, Tom?”

  “Stay back there, Leatherneck.”

  “Not me. That gal’s too bristly. She’s runnin’ that roost. Are we gonna hide out an’ watch?”

  Tom was striding on past the bunkhouse, past the corral and the windmill, toward the scant brush beyond the ranch buildings.

  They were yards from the nearest cover when a horse nickered again in the corral—and this time was answered off in the night. With no more warning than that, hoofs thundered in a wild rush toward the house and bunkhouse.

  Tom whirled to a crouch behind the first low juniper bush, finger on his rifle trigger.

  A loud yell rang out: “Where’s Tom Fortune? We’re lookin’ for yo
u, Fortune!”

  “They’re all outta the bunkhouse!” a second voice yelled.

  The first harsh voice bawled: “In the house there! Send Tom Fortune out here!”

  A window flew up; Betty Gaylord’s clear voice carried in the abrupt lull of sound. “That man isn’t here! You’ll have to look somewhere else! Who is it?”

  “Sheriff Hooker, with the law! We want Fortune for that murder in Sundown tonight! If he’s in there, tell him to come out before we bust in and drag him out!”

  “He’s not here! Please be quiet! My father’s badly wounded.”

  “You don’t say?” Bent Hooker sneered. “Well, we come for him, too, for helpin’ Fortune in the killin’. I got a warrant. Send Gaylord out here or we’ll come in an’ get him!”

  “He had nothing to do with that!”

  “I ain’t out here to argue with a woman!” Hooker rasped at her. “Open the door, miss!”

  She warned: “The first man who tries to break in here will be shot!” Then the window slammed.

  “Watch the house close!” Bent Hooker bawled.

  No one fired from within the house. The posse riders moved restlessly around, ringing the house so that escape from inside was impossible.

  Leatherneck cursed in a whisper. “Tom, reckon he’ll drag Gaylord outta there, wounded?”

  “You heard him.”

  “I didn’t believe it . . . not even from Bent Hooker. What’s that?”

  A shrill oath rang out at the back of the house. A gunshot drowned it out.

  “That was the cook, Tom. But he didn’t fire that gun.”

  “No,” said Tom.

  “Kilt him!” raged Leatherneck under his breath. “Tom, Hooker means business. He ain’t gonna be stopped now. That Obie was kilt for just bein’ in the way.”

  “Uhn-huh.”

  “God!” husked Leatherneck. “Look.”

  It was a faint, harmless little glow in the kitchen windows, but it flared up, turned angry red as they looked. Then as they crouched, staring, fire was unbelievably raging inside the kitchen, licking out the open windows, swelling into a leaping, red inferno.

  “Threw coal oil or something around that room,” Tom ground out. “That Obie must have tried to keep ’em out, and they just killed him and went in. Bent Hooker’s burning ’em out to get at Gaylord.”