Guns of the Timberlands

by Louis L'Amour

  Stag Harvey got to his feet and Kilburn followed suit. “Have the rest of it on you, Devitt. We’ll want it fast.”

  Outside, they walked away from the house before they paused.

  “Wonder if he knows what’ll happen to him when Bell is killed?”

  “No,” Kilburn said thoughtfully, “I don’t think he’s thought about that.”

  “Simmons is dead.”

  “But Devitt don’t read the sign.”

  They walked down to the main street, then stopped again. “We’d better get some sleep, Jack. I don’t like this. Not a bit.”

  JUD DEVITT SAT alone behind his desk. For a moment he stared down at his hands with a feeling of something like revulsion. All the details of the last few minutes seemed dreamlike and unreal. He had actually bought a man’s death. Legally, he was a murderer.

  But this was war … it was a war in which all the rules were changed. It was not in Jud Devitt to go in for self-analysis, nor to realize that this was a war of his own making, a war which he had declared and in which he had opened hostilities. He was a man who meant to win. The admired man was the go-getter, the man who did things. Devitt was not one to stop to consider the rights and wrongs of what he did, nor to realize there is a fine line one may not cross.

  The feeling of doubt and revulsion passed. Bell had his grazing permit, but tomorrow that permit would be revoked by his death. He had no heirs. Within a brief time the hands who worked for Bell would drift away, the land would lie idle, and he could walk in and take over.

  What had become of Tripp? Suddenly irritable, he wanted his labor foreman, but the man was not around. Angrily, he looked at his watch, and for the first time realized that he had sat up most of the night. It would be morning soon.

  He heard voices, someone passing in the street. He paused by the window, his light out, listening.

  When he turned away he walked to his cot and pulled off his boots. Then for a long time he sat there. Shorty Jones had killed Pete Simmons—two shots centered in his shirt pocket at a distance of thirty feet.

  CHAPTER 17

  DAYLIGHT WAS STREAMING in the window when Clay Bell awakened. For a long time he lay still, assembling his thoughts and putting the pieces of the picture in their places.

  Simmons was dead. Shorty Jones had hunted down the man who had crippled Bert Garry and caused the young cowboy’s death.

  Simmons had mistaken the heavy post near which Jones stood for the puncher himself. A few of the buckshot had clipped Shorty, but a scratched cheek and arm were his only injuries.

  This morning there were few lumberjacks around, and most of them were silent and kept in tight groups. The boisterous talk and rough horse-play of the past days was missing.

  Those who had been started from the trail to Emigrant Gap in their sock feet had not returned to Tinkersville. Several others had left by the early train, Bob Tripp and Williams among them.

  Yet there was a noticeable tension in the town. Looking from the second-story hotel window, Bell could sense it in the way people moved, in the very quiet of the town. Men had been killed, and there might be more killing yet to come. Tinkersville was unsure and was taking no chances.

  Clay splashed water on his chest and shoulders, and combed his hair. When he was dressed, he brushed his boots carefully, then checked his guns. He swung the belts around his hips, and settled the guns in their places.

  He felt a curious reluctance to leave his room, and was puzzled by it. Finally, he opened the door and stepped out into the hall. A careful man always, he stopped there and looked up and down the corridor. The doors were closed. There was no sign of movement.

  At the head of the stairs he hesitated and turned and looked back down the hall again. Then he descended, casually, but with eyes alert. Jud Devitt was still in town, and Jud could be dangerous.

  He had seen no sign of Morton Schwabe. Tibbott’s arrival and his broadcasting of the news that Bell had won his grazing permit would probably stop any move that Schwabe might make. But remembering Kesterson’s story of Schwabe buying shells, it was not a good idea to gamble.

  Ed Miller looked up from his inevitable ledger. “You’re late,” he said grinning. “She’s already gone in.”

  Clay walked past the desk and into the dining room. Judge Riley was there, talking with Sam Tinker. Kesterson sat nearby, and alone. There was no sign of either Devitt or Noble Wheeler. Colleen sat at a table alone and, after hanging up his hat, Clay sat down across from her.

  She was pale this morning and her eyes seemed unnaturally large.

  “You’re up early,” he said.

  “I couldn’t sleep—and then those shots.”

  “It was Shorty.”

  “I know. Father went down.”

  They were silent, waiting until the waitress had cleared away dishes left by Judge Riley and brought coffee to Clay.

  “Is it over now?”

  He shook his head. “You know it isn’t. It won’t be until Jud leaves town.”

  “Maybe if I went to see him?”

  “Don’t go. Nothing will make him leave until he makes up his own mind. But most of his crowd are gone.”

  He tried his coffee. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Please do.” She looked up suddenly. “Clay, why don’t you go back to the ranch? He won’t be here long, and if you stay, there’ll be trouble.”

  “I can’t run away from a fight.”

  Her father had told her this. Masculine pride … but something more. A man must be respected by those of his community, and in this country, where fighting courage and skill were respected social virtues, he could not leave.

  Too long had these people lived by the gun. These men and women had crossed the plains, they had fought Indians and outlaws, and they had built homes where it took strength to build and courage to fight—and the willingness to fight was still a social virtue of the first order. The town was not yet tame.

  All those in the dining room were talking about the events of the night. Colleen sat quietly, watching Clay eat. A month ago she would have been horrified at things she now accepted.

  This man had killed men. He was fighting a war just as deadly as any war with flags and uniforms, and a war that must be won. Remembering the hours she had sat with Bert Garry, she knew they had been good hours for her. Bert had been conscious and aware much of the time. He had talked and she had listened; she had heard his slow stories of the work on the B-Bar, how good Clay was to work for, how patiently he built his herds, how solidly he planned.

  Now Bert Garry was dead, and the man who had actually killed him was dead. But the man responsible was still alive and still in town.

  She felt curiously drawn to this tall, quiet young man across the table. Time and again she had tried to understand it, but her feelings defied analysis. When she was with him she felt right. When she was away from him she thought of their brief minutes together and wondered when she would see him again. From the first there had been an unspoken understanding.

  Shorty Jones came in. She heard the door close and looked around, following Clay’s quick glance. Shorty wore a sun-faded checked shirt and jeans. He had his gun tied down. His broad face was red from the sun, and his cornsilk brows shadowed his eyes. He walked quickly to the table and stopped, hat in hand.

  “Clay, I got to talk to you.”

  “Is there trouble at the Gap?”

  “Not now—that bunch that jumped the ranch are gone. Buck Chalmers came in few minutes back. Told me they got themselves a ride toward Tucson with some freighters.”

  “Had breakfast?”

  “Sure.” Shorty hesitated, not certain how to say what he had in mind.

  “Boss,” he said suddenly, “after that Simmons shootin’ I scouted around some, huntin’ for Duval. He must’ve gone to the Gap with that crowd because I didn’t find him. But I saw somethin’ else.”

  “What?”

  “I saw Stag Harvey and Jack Kilburn comin’ out of Jud Devitt’s office at
two in the mornin’. They had a lot of money they were splittin’.”

  So there it was.

  All along Clay had feared this would happen. Devitt was a man who did not know how to lose, he could not bear to lose. Now, driven into a corner, he was buying a killing. Yet how far a step was that from the beating Simmons and Duval had given Bert Garry?

  “Shorty, how about you sitting down over there with a cup of coffee? Sort of keep your eyes open?”

  Shorty nodded assent and moved to the seat from which the approach to the hotel could be watched.

  Colleen put her hand over Clay’s. “Clay … what is it? What does it mean?”

  Harvey and Kilburn might be sure-thing operators but not dry-gulchers. They would meet him in the street or out on the plains, but it would be a man-to-man operation with an even break all around—as much as one man could get from two. At least, he would see who was shooting and he would have his chance to shoot back. But these men were past-masters of guncraft. They would choose the time, and they would arrange the situation to put him in a tactically bad position.

  “I’ve been told about those men, Clay. What does it mean? You can tell me.”

  He looked up from his plate and directly at her. “Yes, Colleen, I think I can tell you. I think I can tell you anything. I think you’re a woman who would walk beside a man. I think you’ve got nerve.”

  He took a swallow of coffee, then put down his cup. “Harvey and Kilburn hire their guns. They are tough, dangerous men. Harvey and me have always sort of walked circles around each other. Kilburn, he don’t like me much. But they fight as a team.”

  “You think Jud hired them—to kill you?”

  “Would he?”

  She sat very still, measuring what she knew of the man. His quick, hard decisions, his ruthlessness, his arrogant resentment of failure. He had a love of doing big jobs quickly, a love of winning. Victory to him was a compelling necessity.

  It must have seemed a very simple thing to a man of his ability and his confidence to come into a town like Tinkersville and log off the Deep Creek range. It was a much smaller job than many he had undertaken, and one that must have seemed to offer no obstacles. He had been brusque and confident and sure … and then he had met defeat at every point.

  Clay Bell had not been frightened by his usual aggressive tactics. He had not been bluffed, and he had met Jud Devitt’s attempts at every point and had beaten him. Devitt’s effort to frighten the B-Bar by having two of their men beaten had backfired. It had not left them shorthanded enough, and it had not stopped them.

  She remembered Jud Devitt from back east. Well-dressed, confident, very sure of himself and disdainful of others. He had seemed a big man there, a man who got things done, the sort of a man whom everyone admired. Girls had envied her, for beside him their men seemed insipid and tame.

  In the days that followed her arrival in Tinkersville she had seen his brusque confidence take a rude shock. She had seen hard lines at the corners of his mouth, had seen him irritable and even brutal. She had seen the true nature of the man emerge. He was a man thoughtless of others, despising all but himself, riding roughshod over personalities and feelings.

  She looked up at Clay.

  “Yes, Clay, I believe he would. He can’t take defeat. He isn’t big enough. He can’t even admit it.” She hesitated, suddenly aware of the sensitiveness of the man she faced, of his thoughtfulness, of …

  “Clay, what will you do?”

  “Why,” he made up his mind even as he replied, “I’ll go see Stag and ask him about it.”

  She started to protest and he grinned at her suddenly. “Now don’t start acting like a wife!”

  Something inside her seemed to catch and hold itself very still. She seemed suddenly short of breath, and she looked up at him and for a long moment their eyes held across the table.

  “Save it,” he said quietly, “for other times, later. I’ve been thinking about that, you know.”

  “So have I.”

  Had she? Suddenly she knew it had been there, between them, every second of the time. Even when they were not together.

  “I’m not going to wait for them to set it up,” he told her. “I’m going to meet them halfway. I’ll have to, if I want to live.”

  He stood up and leaning suddenly across the table he kissed her on the lips. Then he straightened, the action so smooth and easy that it had gone unnoticed in the dining room.

  The door opened and a lean, brown man stepped inside. He wore a brown beaver sombrero and a brown vest, and his face was long and tanned. His legs were slightly bowed and he wore two guns, tied down.

  It was Montana Brown. “Boss, I hear talk around. If it’s to be Harvey and Kilburn, I want in.”

  Shorty Jones started to protest.

  “He’s right, Shorty. Montana had a run-in with Kilburn once … besides, you had your action last night.”

  “Kilburn an’ me,” Montana said, “we got it to settle.”

  “All right.” Clay put a hand on Brown’s shoulder. “We’ll do it this way …” Quickly and concisely he outlined his plan, and Montana nodded agreement as he listened.

  “You,” he turned to Shorty, “locate Devitt and keep an eye on him. Don’t make a move unless he tries to cut in. If he does, he’s your meat.”

  Rush Jackson, Hank Rooney, and Bill Coffin rode into town shortly before noon and went to the bar at the Homestake. With sure instinct, they knew the showdown was at hand. Jones met them and apprised them of the situation here. The men who had been watching cattle were down at the ranch and were keeping an eye on both the Gap and The Notch.

  It was still and warm. The sky was bare of clouds, the dust gathered heat, the unpainted, gray, false-fronted buildings reflected it. Over the desert, heat waves rippled and danced between the eye and the faraway hills. Somewhere out there a faint plume of dust lifted.

  In his office at the bank Noble Wheeler sat before his worn desk, his fat face shadowed and dark with worry. He knew as well as did the others that a showdown was coming. His own part in it he did not know.

  Sam Tinker moved to his chair on the porch of the hotel. Judge Riley went up to his room and took off his coat. Seated at his desk in shirt and suspenders, he began a letter to go back east. There was no sound in the street. Occasionally a rig rattled through, or a horse stamped. Once or twice he heard voices, and once, laughter. These only served to emphasize the stillness of the town. It lay quiet, poised, and waiting… .

  JUD DEVITT GOT up from his desk. His shirt was stained with sweat from where he had been lying on the divan a while before. There were circles of sweat under his arms. He mopped his face and swore softly. He had not shaved, but this morning he was scarcely conscious of it. His face was drawn, his eyes hollow.

  Why the devil didn’t they get it over with! Anger stirred him … was it so complicated to shoot a man?

  He looked out the window.

  Down the street a man sat in the shade of an adobe, his hat pulled low over his eyes. He was smoking, and he wore a gun. It was Shorty Jones.

  Jud Devitt drew back from the window, his mouth suddenly dry. Jones had killed Pete Simmons last night. What did he want here now?

  CHAPTER 18

  RUSH JACKSON CAME up the street and into the hotel. He paused beside Clay. “Saw Stag down at the station, buyin’ a ticket.”

  “Maybe he’s goin’ to grab his soogan and run,” Montana suggested, then shook his head. “Ain’t like him.”

  Bell weighed the idea. He knew that Harvey and Kilburn needed money, and neither man was the sort to dodge a fight when it offered cash on the line.

  “No,” he said finally, “they’ve seen you boys in town. They’ll make their play, then hit the train running.”

  “Then we can figure the time,” Brown said thoughtfully. “They’ll make their try just before train time.”

  Ed Miller was listening. “This is Saturday. Three trains today. One comes through about three this afternoon.”
<
br />   About three …

  The morning drew on and the sun was warmer. There was no sign of Devitt. Shorty Jones loafed in the shadows, moving with them. The slivery gray boards of the walks grew hot. Montana walked to the pitcher and poured a glass of water. The street was almost empty.

  A rig came in from the south. It stood a moment in the street while the driver went into Kesterson’s and hurried out again. He jumped into the rig, whirled it around the corner and out of the street.

  No horses stood at the hitch rails. The few people whose business took them to the stores made hurried purchases and went home. Others stayed within doors, yet a good many were around.

  Clay Bell went to his room and slipped out of his boots and gun belts, placing the guns close at hand on a chair by the bed. Heavy with weariness, he dozed off, awakened, then slept.

  In his office Jud Devitt paced the floor, swearing. Remembering, he went to his safe and counted out twenty-five hundred dollars. About to return the black box to the safe, he hesitated, struck by some vague feeling of caution. There was not much left, but …

  Suddenly, he stuffed the rest of the money in his pockets, returning the empty box to the safe and locking the door. Then he went to the window and looked out. Jones was hunched beside the building, smoking.

  Devitt took the twenty-five hundred dollars and stuffed it into a small canvas sack.

  SAM TINKER HAD been thinking, and he was a man who made his decisions slowly and with great care. He put down his pipe and heaved himself from his chair. Then he lumbered down the steps and across the street to the bank.

  Noble Wheeler sat behind his scarred desk, waiting. The door opened and Sam Tinker came in. He did not sit down. Sam Tinker was a big man, and when he stood like that he looked enormous and awe-inspiring. He mopped his face with a blue bandana, then stuffed it into his pocket.

  “Noble,” he said, “I started this here town, an’ she bears my name. I like her. She’s had her ups and downs, but she’s been a fair to middlin’ place to live. I aim to keep her so.”

  “Why, sure.” Wheeler sounded puzzled. “What can I do to help?”