Guns of the Timberlands

by Louis L'Amour

  He liked sitting here, smelling the cool evening wind from off the sage levels, and once in a while a faint scent of the pines atop Piety. He could sit here on his porch and smell all the smells. Old Mrs. Weber was working late over her washing. Jim Narrows was cooking over a cedar fire again. And occasionally he imagined he got a whiff of the smoke from off the burned wagons at the Gap, miles away. Too far, actually, but he could imagine it.

  There was a new tenant in a cottage in the block beyond Doc McClean’s. She had come to town a few days after the lumberjacks, and for some days Sam had believed that explained her arrival, yet she had no visitors. Not at first.

  She was blond and lovely, a somewhat overstuffed blonde with a friendly, agreeable face. Her figure was one that turned heads when she walked by. This was the blonde Bill Coffin had seen, the blonde who was keeping him awake too many nights, just thinking about her.

  Yet she was not without visitors—or a visitor. Jud Devitt had been to call, but evidently all had not gone well, for he had not stayed long. Sam Tinker did not know that Bill Coffin had seen the blonde—what was more important, the blonde had seen him. He had those lean, rawboned good looks and that whimsical humor that can be vastly appealing.

  Sam Tinker was enjoying the smells of the night and his memories of the blonde when he heard the soft footfalls of a walking horse. He heard the horse stop in the darkness alongside the hotel. He heard the creak of saddle leather as a man swung down.

  Sam Tinker could wait. Whatever he had that anyone might want would be locked in the safe inside, and folks in the Deep Creek country knew better than to rob Sam Tinker. Sam had too many friends. Sheriffs and outlaws, ranchers and sheepmen, Indians from off the high mesas and prospectors from the rough country beyond The Notch. So he waited, puffing contentedly on his pipe. Whatever happened, it would make his evening more interesting.

  The steps creaked and he looked up to see Clay Bell standing beside him. Clay hunkered down on his heels at the side of the chair. A man would have to walk clear past to even see him, squatting like that.

  “Howdy, Clay! Cuttin’ a wide swath, these days.”

  “Know a man who owns a gray horse with small hoofs?” Clay, without changing position, began to build a smoke. “High-steppin’, nervous sort of horse. This man would be wearin’ store-bought pants.”

  Sam Tinker inhaled and held it, then let the smoke drift from his lips. He was vastly pleased by the question. He was a disciple of the belief that evil always gets what it deserves, and he enjoyed seeing his philosophy borne out. Particularly in this case. He had a certain admiration for really hard men who were skilled killers if they walked up to a man’s face and gave him a chance, but not for the gunman who lay in ambush, and who shot in the back.

  “Mighty small field, Clay. Tibbott, he’s out o’ town somewheres. Doc McClean’s busy with that cowhand o’ yours. Kesterson ain’t been off the sidewalk for two months.”

  “Jud Devitt?”

  “Couldn’t say. Mostly he rides a buckboard or that bay hoss he got from Feeney. Hear he had him a run-in with that filly of Judge Riley’s. She took up for you.”

  Ordinarily, this would have distracted Clay. Tonight it did not. Later he would remember it, but for now there was another problem.

  Suppose he eliminated Jud Devitt? And shooting from cover did not seem like Devitt’s way. Morton Schwabe? He had never seen the man in a store-bought suit—not the pants, anyway.

  Noble Wheeler.

  It made no sense. Wheeler had been instrumental, he now believed, in getting Devitt to come to Tinkersville; he might have done other things, but the small profit in a timber venture was hardly enough—at least, the small part that Wheeler would get.

  The man who had waited for him knew of the path up the mountain. Whoever it was that had climbed down the bank and knocked those samples off the wall had used that path. A party of men could not approach it unseen. Nothing but a man afoot or a rider would climb it, and a rider on a good mountain horse.

  If that ore now, if that ore was valuable … If it was gold—but it was not. Clay Bell knew gold when he saw it.

  “Wheeler have a gray horse?”

  Sam Tinker spat into the darkness off the end of the porch. “Keeps a couple of horses in the stable back of the bank. Wouldn’t take a man long to find out!”

  Clay Bell dropped his cigarette and rubbed it out with his toe. Then he stepped off the porch into the darkness. Waiting until there was no one visible along the street, he walked slowly across. Had anyone come out Bell would have appeared to be only another puncher going casually about his lack of business.

  This town was alive with danger for him. His life would not be worth a plugged peso if either Devitt or Wheeler—if Wheeler was his man—knew he was in town. Devitt might not have him killed, he would certainly like to see him maimed.

  All was dark behind the bank. Bell walked along, hesitated, looking up at the dark windows. Was there a face there? Imagination …

  The stable door was open, and there were three horses. The one in the end stall was a gray. His lighted match told him that. The horses rolled their eyes at him, and the gray blew nervously. Bell lowered the match … the hoofs were small, well-shaped, freshly shod. The tracks were plain to see in the earth of the stable floor—and they were familiar.

  Clay Bell straightened and blew out his match. For an instant he held it, smelling the sulphur and thinking. Then he walked outside. Only when he was away from the stable did he drop the match.

  CHAPTER 13

  BILL COFFIN HAD a memory for a pretty face. And his raid on the Devitt road camp had whetted his appetite for more such attacks. In either case, a waiting game was no part of his way of life.

  Shorty was in a receptive mood. He had been anxious to see Bert Garry, and now that the tide of battle had turned their way, it looked like a chance to slip away to town. Rooney was at the ranch, and as far as he knew, Clay was also. And there was always Mahafee, never to be ignored when battle was in prospect.

  Moreover, his mind had been unable to let go the feeling of horror remaining from the night he had seen Pious Pete Simmons boot Garry into unconsciousness. No stranger to the rougher sides of life, Shorty Jones had grown up in a land and a time when men fought with guns, with knives, and more rarely with their fists. But to jump in the face of a man already down with calked boots was the ultimate in ugliness.

  “All right,” he agreed finally, “let’s go.”

  Bill Coffin was as concerned with the blonde as with carrying the war to the enemy camp. If she was a dance hall girl she would be at the Homestake. Saddling up, they moved out cautiously so as to alarm neither Hank Rooney nor the men at the road camp. Neither man was unaware of the danger that lay ahead. Tinkersville was teeming with lumberjacks, and those who had been forced to walk to town in their sock feet were eager for some chance to retaliate.

  Unaware that Coffin and Jones had started toward town, Clay Bell left the stable and, after a glance up at the dark windows of Wheeler’s quarters, he walked back to the street.

  At the Tinker House and the Homestake, lights were bright and there was the sound of tin-panny music and loud laughter. Occasionally a man appeared on the street, walking toward the bunkhouse or to another saloon. As he waited in the shadows, Colleen Riley came from the hotel and, after pausing for a word with Sam Tinker, came down the steps and turned up the street toward Doc McClean’s.

  Standing in the deep shadow, his hat pulled low, he watched her pass the window, saw the momentary light upon her face, and heard the rustle of her skirts. Back in the stable a horse stamped, and somewhere a door slammed.

  Clay Bell glanced sharply down the street, his eyes going from door to door with quick, searching glance, and then he stepped out of the darkness and crossed the street toward Colleen.

  She turned quickly as she heard his steps, and he spoke. “Oh! It’s you,” she said.

  He fell into step beside her. Back on the porch, Sam Tinker rolled
his pipe in his lips and spat. Things were looking up.

  YOU SHOULDN’T BE in town, you know.”

  He liked the sound of her voice, and the suggestion of worry that was in it.

  “I wanted to see Bert.” When they had taken a few steps he added, “And to thank you for all you’ve done for him. Doc’s a great fellow, but no comfort to a man when he’s down.”

  “I’ve been glad to do what I could.” She stopped and put her hand on his arm. Her face was shadowed with worry. “Clay, Bert has pneumonia. We’ve been afraid of that.”

  Clay Bell stared down the street. If Bert had pneumonia he might die. And if Bert Garry died, Clay knew there would be no holding the B-Bar. His boys would come to town, with or without him, and they would leave dead men on the street. Not even he could stop or prevent it, for these men rode for the brand and possessed a fierce, almost feudal loyalty for those with whom they rode. And Bert Garry had been the youngest of the lot, and a favorite.

  “There’ll be trouble if he doesn’t pull through. Two years ago rustlers killed a rider of mine. We trailed them down. Bert and I, we circled around a hill to cut off anybody who escaped. Before we could get up the boys had killed all four rustlers and set fire to the place.”

  “I’ve tried to tell Jud. So have others.”

  Where they stood there was deep shadow. Out over the desert a coyote spoke to the moon, his shrill voice yapping sounds that trailed away and died. He stood silent, wanting to speak of other things, yet uncertain of how to begin.

  “He’s different these days,” she said finally. “Not like himself.”

  “Jud’s a front runner, Colleen. He’s used power and money to win, and he is used to winning. I think he has always had an advantage before.”

  “I’m afraid of what he may do if he begins to think he’ll lose.”

  “He will lose.”

  They were silent again, and almost automatically they began to walk on toward McClean’s together.

  “And then what will you do?” he asked suddenly. “If he loses, I mean?”

  “I don’t know. Father may go back East. But he likes it here, and this was a temporary appointment.” She looked around at him. “Jud engineered it. I suppose you know?”

  “I figured so.”

  “Clay—did you know about Morton Schwabe?”

  “What about him?”

  She explained quickly, and saw his face stiffen with surprise, then grow grave. “The man’s a brute. Not fit for any commission. And he’s an enemy of mine.”

  She told him about the injunction and Devitt’s plan—that Schwabe was to serve it. He held himself still, considering all it might mean. Here again was evidence of a guiding hand that must be that of Noble Wheeler. By himself, it was doubtful if Devitt would have arrived at the choice of Schwabe for marshal. That had to be suggested to him by someone who knew of the rancher’s enmity for Bell.

  Also, it gave an indication of the lengths to which Devitt was prepared to go. Schwabe was a troublemaker, and with the authority of the law behind him he could be a dangerous man. Kesterson had several times informed Bell of Schwabe’s continued purchase of ammunition, that could only mean constant practice with a gun.

  Devitt might yet come to the hiring of killers. It had not yet been done, but without doubt this latest choice meant that, although he had not hired a killer, he was not above trying to arrange a killing. Such papers could have been served peaceably by a dozen men, but never by Schwabe. It was a deliberate effort either to have Bell killed or to put him in the position of resisting the Federal law.

  “If that injunction is served,” he said slowly, “I’ll have to honor it. I won’t buck the government.” An idea came to him suddenly. “There’s a way of beating this yet.”

  He hesitated, thinking. “If Devitt is allowed to use that road, he’ll start cutting timber as soon as he’s on the land. Colleen, how strong is Devitt with your father?”

  “He’s lost ground, Clay. Dad did think Jud could do no wrong until he heard that Devitt had ordered Duval and Simmons to attack Garry.”

  “What?” Clay caught her arm. “Devitt ordered that attack?”

  She looked up, frightened by his expression. “Didn’t you know? He wanted to make you shorthanded. Bob Tripp didn’t like it too well, but he passed on the order. They were overheard, and Jud admitted it to me.”

  Clay Bell dropped his grip from her arm. “Colleen, if Bert Garry dies I’ll kill Jud Devitt.”

  “No—no, Clay! That will only make matters worse.”

  They had reached the door of the McClean home. A light burned in the office; another, a dim light, in Garry’s room.

  A thought came to Clay. It was an idea that had come to him a few minutes before, but had been lost when he heard that Devitt had ordered the attack on Garry. He turned the idea over in his mind now.

  “Is your father at the hotel?”

  “Yes, but be careful. The saloon is filled with lumberjacks.”

  He watched her go into the house, then turned abruptly and went back down the street. As he walked, his eyes and ears alert for trouble, he thought of what he planned. It looked good, it looked very good.

  Judge Riley sat over coffee and cigars with Sam Tinker in the hotel dining room. Clay stepped into the door and looked quickly around. There was no one else in sight. Loud voices came from the saloon beyond the swinging doors that divided it from the lobby. Clay crossed the lobby, entered the dining room and joined the two men at the table.

  “Judge, you’ve issued an injunction that will allow Devitt to use the old stage road, is that right? Until this case is settled?”

  Riley nodded, waiting.

  “All right, that’s fair enough. Now I want an injunction forbidding any cutting of timber until the case is settled. This injunction should also deny any camping along the road.”

  “You believe he would begin cutting before the government has made a ruling?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Tinker hitched himself around in his chair and spoke. “He could have his timber cut before any ruling was passed down. Fact is, he has a man, name of Chase, acting for him in Washington. He could block any settlement of the case, then he could pay a modest sum in damages if the ruling went against him.”

  “And I’d have lost my grazing when I need it most.”

  Riley tasted his coffee. It was too hot. He put the cup down carefully and considered the question. Knowing Jud Devitt, he realized the man had no intentions of waiting for any final decision. He could not afford to wait. Yet if he gave Bell the injunction he wanted, Devitt would be furious. He would do all he could to break the judge. And he was an old man with a daughter to consider.

  Then he smiled thoughtfully. It was too easy to judge a case by self-interest. Too easy, and wrong. What Clay Bell asked was reasonable and right. It would prevent Devitt from cutting timber he had no right to cut, anyway.

  It was Sam Tinker who decided him. “Might prevent bloodshed,” Sam said, stoking his pipe. “Schwabe would attempt to enforce that injunction for Devitt. This new move would stop them cold. Schwabe would kill Clay if he could do it under cover of the law—but he would not go against the law itself. I’ll gamble on it.”

  Judge Riley tried his coffee again. It was black, hot, and strong. He drank, then put down his cup. “I’ll grant your injunction. I’ll issue it tonight.”

  “Good!” Clay came to his feet. Then he hesitated for a moment. “Judge, when this is over, I’d like your permission to speak to your daughter.”

  Judge Riley looked up sharply. He measured the man before him, the strong, clean-cut features, the bronzed face and the quiet eyes. Yes—yes, of course.

  He nodded, “Young man, you’ve my permission, for what it’s worth. Colleen has been taught to make her own decisions.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Clay Bell turned and went out. Riley stared after him. “These young people! I—Sam, you make your coffee too blasted hot!”


  Stag Harvey was loafing on the steps when Bell came out. Clay paused, studying him.

  “Still around, Stag?”

  The man’s slow smile was non-committal. “Yeah, still here.”

  “You might as well drift. This trouble’s over.”

  “Don’t make any bets.”

  Jack Kilburn came out of the saloon. “Stag—we got business.”

  Harvey turned away. “’By, Clay. Be seein’ you!”

  Bell watched them go, then turned toward his horse. All he wanted now was to get out of town. Riley would issue his injunction, and Schwabe, bully though he was, would be up against a stacked deck. They would allow free passage, and to avoid trouble, he, Clay Bell, would remain carefully out of sight. Then Schwabe would have to protect the trees himself. He wouldn’t like it, but he would do it. Schwabe might be many things, but he had a wholesome respect for the law.

  Boot heels sounded on the walk, and Bell drew back into a doorway. A fast-walking man was coming toward him. And the man was angry. He could tell by the sound of those heels.

  He stood very still and watched the man pass. It was Jud Devitt. Had he reached out a hand he could have touched him.

  Unknown to Bell, Jud Devitt had just had the final blow administered to his ego. He had been told, not too gently, where he could go. Told by a blonde named Randy Ashton, a blonde whom Devitt had invited to Tinkersville and who he believed would prove sufficiently pliable and willing. Faced with an abrupt ultimatum she had proved anything but easy, and had, with considerable dignity, ordered him to leave. As he turned away a rider had dismounted at the door.

  Angry words flooded to Devitt’s lips and he turned abruptly, jerking open the door. Before he could get out a word, a soft voice, yet one edged with a chill quality he did not mistake, said, “You was just leavin’, wasn’t you?”

  The tall young man was a blond cowhand, the one who had grinned so impudently the day in the street when Bell laid down his quiet challenge. Beside himself with fury, Devitt was about to speak, and then he saw there was no impudence in the cowpuncher’s eyes, and that the man’s hand rested on the butt of his gun.