The Third Western Megapack

by Barker, S. Omar

  Tenner waited out a long day in vain. The man he expected did not show up. At dark he started to leave. Dawkes accosted him.

  “You want me go on like I been?”

  “Give ’er another day,” Tenner said to the fat man. “You got the word around like I said about the palomino?”

  “Exactly,” said the fat man.

  * * * *

  Next day, Tenner was back. He chaffed interminably at the tedious hours passing like the rubbing down of stone. The air was hot and fetid in the little cubicle, but it was too dark to read. Tenner could not risk a light.

  The hours passed. Night had not fallen, but Tenner was ready to call it quits. He could not stand the inactivity any longer. He started out the door when the noise of arguing stopped him.

  He knew Tom Dawkes’ voice. As he peered out in the dim light, his heart began to pound. He made out the thin figure and the beady-eyed face of Ed Keel.

  Tenner watched them intently. Keel and Dawkes circled the sheriff’s palomino talking a blue streak. There was a fierce, almost maniacal greed in Keel for the horse which even at a distance could be felt in his words. They were arguing about price. Keel did not hold out long long, and Tenner heard the slap of the two hands being brought together.

  Wiping his face with a bandaba, the lawman saw Keel take out a leather bag. A stream of yellow coins poured out, and the two men began to count them. Then, finished, Keel began to saddle the palomino. Dawkes glanced around uneasily.

  Tenner stepped out from the office.

  “Just a minute, Keel,” he said clearly. “I want in on this deal.”

  Keel swung, went pale. His jaw dropped and little eyes glittered.

  “What is this?” snapped Keel. “Who’s sellin’ the palomino, you or Dawkes?”

  “I’m sort of a silent partner.” Tenner turned to Dawkes. “Let me see those gold coins, Tom.”

  The fat man handed them over, and the sheriff began to inspect each coin carefully. He held each to the light, turning it slowly around. Finally, he grunted, satisfied. He looked at Keel.

  “I figured, if you bought the palomino, you’d pay off in twenty-five-dollar gold pieces. That was a mistake. This money belonged to old Sun-Fisher Jones.”

  While Tenner had been talking, Keel had gone chalky pale. He now recovered a bit, sneered at the snowy-haired lawman.

  “Sun-Fisher wasn’t the only man who has twenty-five-dollar gold pieces.”

  “Not so fast. I warned Sun-Fisher, too, not to keep the money in his cabin. He wouldn’t listen. He did let me register the dates on each coin. I have those here. I also got him to scratch a little cross on each one. You can see the marks.”

  Keel looked at the marked coins with eyes like agates. His thin, chalk-colored face tensed. He wet his lips, watched the blocky lawman like a wounded hawk. Then he went for his gun with the speed of a striking reptite.

  Tenner’s white hair had fooled many a quick man with a gun. He now surprised Keel. With amazing speed, the old lawman drew a long-barreled Colt and struck the drifter across the head. Keel staggered, went again for his weapon. Tenner gave him another sharp blow on the side of the head. Keel sunk to his knees, helpless. His Colt dropped from his fingers.

  “Didn’t think your trap would work—but it did,” chuckled Dawkes.

  Tenner hauled Keel to his feet. “I figured Keel had to have a horse to get away with Sun-Fisher’s money. His own was lame. He wanted the palomino, but he couldn’t let me know he had that kind of money. That’s why you, Tom, had to let on about owning the horse.”

  “Mighty shrewd.” Dawkes chuckled. “You’d make a good horse trader.”

  “’Course, I took a big chance,” said Tenner.

  Keel bent his angular, dazed face upward, a trickle of blood running down one cheek.

  “A chance,” he said viciously. “How you figure you took a chance?”

  Sheriff Tenner glanced fondly at his horse.

  “I figured you’d bring in Sun-Fisher’s money. The palomino looked like the best bet to get you to fork out. If the money was Sun-Fisher’s, all right. But if you’d brought in your own money, I’d be out a good horse.”

  HELL-PATH FOR PILGRIMS, by William Heuman

  I

  The valley spread out before them like the inside of a vast bowl, with a thin streamer of blue water trickling through the middle. The floor was a green pad of sweet grass with a herd of Indian cayuses grazing at the north end.

  Jim Beckman, mountain man, held his horse up on the lip of the notch and stared down at the three rude log houses and the dozen faded brown teepees. The frown deepened on his tanned face. He had a long jaw and faded blue eyes; his long legs dangled on each side of the short half-wild mustang twitching nervously beneath him.

  The young mountain man eased around in his saddle and shifted his gaze to the twisting trail behind.

  Old Ben Williams jogged up beside him, leading a string of heavily-laden mules. The trapper’s thin, grizzled face indicated his disappointment.

  “Reckon they ain’t here, Jim,” he mumbled. “Them damn traders kin sit in their warm homes in St. Louis while we freeze our innards in the mountains all winter trappin’ beaver.” The old man hunched his thin shoulders in the grease-blackened buckskin shirt. “Then,” he snapped, “they can’t even git to the rendezvous on time.”

  Jim listened to a burst of wild laughter from the log cabins. He was younger than Old Ben; this was his fifth spring rendezvous. They had eight packs of prime beaver, the best catch in his five years of trapping the Rocky Mountain streams.

  “Sounds like Big Frenchy’s here,” Ben went on, “an’ that means trouble, Jim.”

  Jim nodded. He also recognized that roar of drunken laughter. “Big Frenchy” Ladreau was already at the rendezvous waiting for the St. Louis Fur Company traders, who were now about two weeks late.

  At the last rendezvous, Big Frenchy had knifed a young Crow buck. He’d spent the two weeks in the valley chasing squaws, gambling, drinking, and fighting. When drunk, the powerful black-bearded French Canuck was a terror.

  “We’ll go down,” Jim said briefly. He kicked the mustang with his moccasined heels, and the pony picked its way through the rocks in the pass. They trotted through the short grass and splattered across the stream toward the straggling rendezvous.

  Riding in between the Indian teepees, they recognized friends. Half-naked Crow trappers sat outside the wigwams smoking and nodding gravely. Jim realized packs of beaver were stored inside each tent awaiting the traders. Usually, they came much earlier than this. It was strange.

  “There’s Hugh Benton,” Ben said, “an’ old Clem Hyde; an’ the Bearcat, an’ Whisperin’ Jones.”

  Jim saw them outside the log huts squatting on the ground in a circle. Each man held a few greasy, tattered pasteboard cards in his hand.

  “They can’t trade,” Ben grinned, “’cause the traders ain’t here, but they kin gamble. There’s some men will lose all their packs before the St. Looie men come.”

  The door of the cabin banged open, and a big dark-faced man, with small black eyes half-hidden in the fleshy face, stood in the doorway. He had a battered tin cup full of liquor in his hand, and he swayed as he watched the card game.

  “Big Frenchy Ladreau,” Ben whispered. “The devil hisself!”

  Jim watched quietly. He’d seen Big Frenchy in action before, and he tried to avoid the bully of the rendezvous. Big Frenchy had an Army pistol in a holster at his side. Jim also knew about that razor-sharp Green River knife stuck inside Big Frenchy’s unkempt hunting shirt.

  Big Frenchy threw the cup full of fiery liquor down his throat and then tossed the cup into the dirt. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, grinned slyly, and then lurched forward.

  “Here it comes,” Ben mu
rmured.

  “By gar,” Big Frenchy grinned, “I weel play, too.” He squatted down in the middle of the circle and knocked the cards from the hands of old Clem Hyde.

  Jim heard Ben mumble something in his throat. He knew that his partner and Clem Hyde were good friends. Hyde was a small man with a gray beard and mild brown eyes. He pushed back from the circle and tried to stand up.

  Big Frenchy glared at him, the smile gone from his drunken face.

  “You weel not play with Big Frenchy?” he demanded. “You geeve ze insult?”

  Hyde’s rifle had been stacked with the others a few feet away. The small man edged back toward the rifles. Big Frenchy caught his ankle and yanked him back into the circle.

  “I weel teach you one beeg lesson,” the Frenchman scowled. “You weel not play cards with Big Frenchy.” His ponderous hand lashed out and it caught Hyde full in the face. The little trapper went down on his back as if he’d been shot.

  Big Frenchy had hit him from a sitting position. The Frenchman scrambled to his feet as the other trappers fell away. He started toward Hyde and aimed a kick at the smaller man’s face.

  “Ladreau,” Ben called stiffly.

  Jim glanced over at his partner. Ben had his rifle lifted and the muzzle pointed at Big Frenchy Ladreau’s heart.

  “Git away, Ladreau,” Ben snapped. The thin, hatchet-faced little trapper was white with rage. “I should put a bullet plumb through your black heart.”

  Jim leaned across his pony’s neck and grinned. He’d known old Ben for five years since coming to the mountains from Tennessee; he’d never seen the trapper lose his temper.

  Big Frenchy stared into the mouth of the gun. Big Frenchy was no coward; he had Indian blood in him, and he possessed an Indian’s stoicism.

  Jim saw the black eyes flit toward the left; he saw the grin spreading over Big Frenchy’s face, and then he heard the twang of an Indian bow. Ben let out a yell as the rifle was knocked from his hands by the force of the arrow.

  The rifle lay on the ground with an arrow quivering in the wooden stock. The missile had struck inches away from the old trapper’s face. It had been a remarkable shot even though the distance was short.

  Jim saw the tall somber-faced Indian standing ten yards away from them. He recognized Standing Bull, Big Frenchy’s partner. Standing Bull derived his height from a Blackfoot father, although he’d been raised in a Crow village, hereditary enemies of the Blackfeet.

  “You are surprise?” Big Frenchy laughed.

  Standing Bull had another arrow in the bow and was holding it in readiness. Ben looked at the rifle on the ground. His face paled as Big Frenchy lurched toward him.

  Jim slid quietly from his horse. He knew what Big Frenchy could do with those hands. He’d seen Big Frenchy blind a man for life. The big Frenchman was in a dangerous mood; he’d been insulted and it had to be paid for.

  “You weel come down,” Big Frenchy invited. “You weel play with me.” He reached out and caught the bridle of Ben’s horse. With a yank he pulled the animal around and then caught the old trapper by the leg. In a moment Ben was lying on the ground.

  Big Frenchy kicked dirt into his eyes to blind him and then raised his heavy foot to smash it into the old man’s face.

  Jim stepped forward. He was as tall as Big Frenchy but fifty pounds lighter. Keel-boating on the Ohio had given him steel in his arms and shoulders. Tramping along mountain streams in the fall and early spring had provided him with sturdy underpinnings.

  Catching Big Frenchy by the shoulder, he spun him around. He read the surprise in the Frenchman’s puffy face. Big Frenchy had often seen him at the rendezvous, a quiet, unassuming young trapper who didn’t drink and didn’t gamble with the others. He traded in his pelts and secured quantities of bacon, flour, coffee, and new traps. Then he was gone back into the mountains which he loved.

  Ben hadn’t understood him at first.

  “Fer an old man,” the trapper would growl, “this life is all right. I reckon there ain’t much that I’d want in civilization. You’re young, Jim, an’ you got a life to live—” He stared at the quiet man on the other side of the fireplace in their mountain cabin.

  Jim smiled and looked into the fire. He had no family, and few relatives in Tennessee. No one had been on the pier to say goodbye when he went aboard the steam side-wheeler which would take him downstream and then up to St. Louis.

  The little town on the Missouri was booming with activity. Rival fur companies combed the city for young men to go into the mountains and trap for beaver. Each year the traders raced from the city to the various rendezvous to compete for the valuable pelts.

  Jim had gone out with a party and he’d seen the mountains. He stayed a year, and then two. He didn’t want to go back.

  And now—

  Big Frenchy Ladreau swore loudly and tried to wrench loose. The tall trapper lashed at him with his right fist. The hard knuckles cracked against the Canuck’s jaw with terrific force. Big Frenchy went down on his back, stunned.

  Jim hopped behind his horse and reached for the rifle in the holster. Standing Bull had had an arrow trained on Ben. That arrow would probably be flying in his direction now.

  “I reckon the redskin ain’t causin’ trouble,” Clem Hyde spoke quietly. The little trapper had picked his rifle from the stack and was training the sights on Big Frenchy’s partner.

  Face expressionless, the big Indian stared at Hyde and then slipped the arrow back into the shoulder quiver.

  Big Frenchy Ladreau climbed to his feet. Jim saw the hatred in the trapper’s beady black eyes. Big Frenchy’s hand was reaching inside the buckskin shirt when Jim hit him again.

  The Frenchman didn’t know how to fight with his fists, and Jim decided to stay away from his powerful arms. He knew that if Big Frenchy got in close, it would be all over. Big Frenchy’s thumbs would reach for his eyes; a hand like a steel trap would go for his throat.

  He hit Big Frenchy again and again in the face, and the blood spattered out. Stepping back, he avoided the Frenchman’s rush. Every time Big Frenchy reached inside his shirt, Jim moved in and smashed him in the face with his fist.

  Big Frenchy fell against the log hut. As he went down, the Green River knife flashed out into the sun. Jim blinked at it. He knew that with a knife, he was no match for a man like Big Frenchy. The Frenchman was an experienced knife-fighter, preferring it even to the pistol.

  “You kin drop it, Frenchy,” Clem Hyde said grimly. “If you knife this boy, I reckon I’ll have to put a bullet through you.”

  Big Frenchy let the knife fall to the ground. Jim saw the man’s fingers tighten around a rough stone. Big Frenchy rushed him again with the stone in his hand. He hurled it at the young trapper’s head as he came closer.

  The sharp-edged missile grazed Jim’s temple. It cut away the skin and dazed him slightly. He staggered, and then Big Frenchy was on top of him. The Frenchman hurled him to the ground and rained blows on his face. He felt Big Frenchy fingers reaching for his throat. Ladreau would throttle him into unconsciousness and then go for his eyes—maybe his ears!

  He felt the blood flowing down his cheek from the temple cut. With a heave, he twisted himself around and caught Big Frenchy’s heel. He caught a glimpse of Ben scooping his rifle from the ground. Then he jerked Big Frenchy’s heel and the big man went over his head.

  Scrambling to his feet, Jim charged in again. He started to punch, coldly and methodically, and he kept moving in. He didn’t give Big Frenchy a chance to get set.

  The Canuck howled from the pain of those tormenting fists. He staggered back against the cabin, and Jim continued to hit him. His knuckles were bloody and bruised from the contact with Big Frenchy’s face, but he continued to strike.

  The trappers stood around in a circle and watched the debacle. Somber-faced Indi
ans peered from behind the white men, approval written in their dark eyes. To a man, red and white, the trappers at Pleasant Valley rendezvous hated Big Frenchy Ladreau.

  Big Frenchy was whimpering like a beaten dog as he slumped down to a sitting position. His face was a bloody pulp, eyes scarcely distinguishable in the mess.

  Jim rocked on his feet, stared down at the man he’d beaten, and then lurched away to his horse. A new king of the rendezvous had been born.

  II

  Ben Williams led him down to the stream and washed his face. A Crow trapper came down and offered him some herb ointment for his battered hands. Jim grinned and nodded his thanks.

  “I reckon you made a bad enemy there, son,” Ben said regretfully. “Thanks for joinin’ in. Big Frenchy is nobody to fool with.”

  Jim lay back down in the grass. His hands stung something awful. And the ointment stank something worse.

  Clem Hyde came over and sat down on the grass before them. The little trapper calmly lit a pipe and then spoke.

  “Thanks,” he said quietly. “I reckon I’ll do the same fer you two some day.”

  “You already have,” Ben said with a grin. “Remember Standin’ Bull?”

  “What happened to him?” Jim asked.

  “Oh,” Clem said, “He packed Frenchy onto his back and carried him off. I ’spect they’ll be back presently.”

  Ben rubbed his chin. “I wouldn’t trust that redskin any more than I can throw a buffalo. Standin’ Bull has too much Blackfoot in him to suit me.” The Blackfeet didn’t like trappers horning in on their hunting grounds. They worked with the British fur companies in Canada, but they don’t like American trappers.

  Jim bent down and took a deep drink of the cold stream water. Then he looked over at Hyde.

  “What about the other traders?”

  Hyde shrugged. “We’re still a-sittin’,” he grinned, “and still a-waitin’.”