Hardcase Law

by Neil Webb

  Hardcase Law

  Neil Webb

  © Neil Webb 1981

  Neil Webb has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1981 by Robert Hale Limited.

  This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  ONE

  Link Latimer reined in when he heard the shots, and eased his long body in the hard saddle as he loosened the Winchester in its dusty scabbard. His right hand touched the walnut butt of the well oiled Colt .45 on his right thigh. His blue eyes hardened and squinted as he stared around at the wilderness through which he was riding. He idly slapped away the dust coating his vest front.

  The string of shots sounded urgent. Their echoes fled across the wild, sun-baked land, thinning out as they struck into space. Latimer’s hard lips pressed back against his teeth. Someone, somewhere, was buying trouble. He gigged his bronc and pulled the animal’s head to the right. He wanted no part of anyone’s trouble, and would ride out of his way to avoid it.

  Not that he was in a hurry to get anywhere. He was tired of the middle-west; had become too notorious, with a price on his head and lawmen on the watch to get him. Latimer was not an old man. He would be thirty-five if he lived to see another birthday. But the drooping black moustache and hard stubble on his angular face added fifteen years to his appearance. His cold blue eyes under their beetling black brows looked oddly out of keeping with his general colouring.

  Latimer watched the ground on his left hand as he rode, wondering at the shooting he had heard, but under no compulsion from his curiosity to ride and investigate. He had learned early in life to mind his own business, and his lips twisted into a grim smile as he mulled over his colourful past. It wasn’t a respectable past for such as a school marm to study, he thought humourlessly. Violence had been riding at his elbow for many years. He was still full of bitterness, and his eyes betrayed cynicism. There was a hardness inside him that owed its being to the tragic end of his family, which he had witnessed at the impressionable age of thirteen years. The frustration of being too young to hunt and kill the men responsible had laid its talons upon his very soul.

  He had drifted aimlessly with the passing years into crime and a rough life. At first he had tried to hunt down the killers who had murdered his parents, but he never found them, and had long ago given up the idea of finding them. He was a friendless man, always riding alone, relishing the loneliness of the trail. He owed allegiance to no virtue, lived by his ready gun, and robbed and stole when he wanted money or food. He was a killer with no compunction in him when he killed, but he had planted more bad men than good, and never murdered. He was a mixture of good and bad, with one day seeing the bad side of his nature and another seeing the goodness that could ride within him.

  There was a heavy silence now. Latimer relaxed as much as he ever relaxed on the trail. The creaking of his harness and saddle leather, and the beating of his mount’s hooves, were the only sounds in this great wide-open country. The overhead sun and the emptiness in his flat belly told him it was mid-day, and he stretched himself and looked around alertly.

  It was then the rapid sound of hoof beats came to his keen ears, and he touched spurs and guided the animal into cover among a cluster of copper-coloured rocks.

  He sat his horse with his left hand pressing lightly upon his saddle horn, holding his reins while his right hand touched the butt of his holstered Colt. Another gunshot blared out, its echoes flattening against the great silence. The beat and echo of fleeting hooves sounded louder. More shots crackled, and once Latimer heard the whine of ricocheting lead as it screamed over his head in blind flight.

  Presently a rider came galloping into view, the horse stretched out at top speed, and thirty yards behind there was another horseman, whose right arm lifted and fell, and gunshots crashed and smoke spurted about the speeding horse and rider. Latimer watched with taut muscled face. The leading rider came almost straight to the spot where he sat watching, as if guided by some desperate intuition. The pursuer fired again. The leading rider threw wide his arms and pitched forward in an arc as his horse slithered heavily along the dusty ground.

  Latimer watched grimly. The horse lay with threshing hooves, screaming in the dust. Its rider lay where he had fallen, face down and unmoving. The pursuer came up and sprang from his sweating mount. He put a shot into the brain of the writhing horse as he passed, then bent swiftly over the inert figure of his victim. Latimer thrilled when the man removed the fallen rider’s hat and a mass of blonde hair was exposed. The victim was a woman!

  The woman moaned and stirred. Her captive sat back on his heels and watched her slowly regain consciousness. Latimer waited silently, his hiding place a scant twenty feet from the two in the open. His blue eyes were inscrutable, his breathing shallow, and his fingers were clenched around the butt of his holstered six-shooter.

  ‘That’s better,’ the gunman said, standing up and pulling the woman to her feet. ‘You didn’t think you could get away from me, did you? Now we’ve got a little unfinished business to settle.’

  ‘Let me go, you killer,’ the girl sobbed. She struggled futilely in the man’s strong grip. ‘You’ll pay for this; you and all Stott riders. You’ve killed my father and my brother.’

  ‘They had their chance to get clear. You nesters are all alike. You were told to up and ride out. Now you and me are going to get real close. Come on, over there in those rocks.’

  The girl screamed and struggled, but the man stifled her resistance.

  ‘Screaming ain’t going to help you none,’ he said. ‘There ain’t no one around here but rattlers and prairie dogs.’

  The girl kicked out and broke free of the man’s cruel grasp. She ran to the spot where Latimer sat immobile and tripped and sprawled under the legs of his mount. When she realized that a horse was standing there, she looked up in amazement, and their eyes met, their glances holding. Latimer saw naked terror loose in her face. He turned his eyes to the man.

  The killer followed, but pulled up with a surprised cry when he saw Latimer sitting his mount. His hands streaked down to his holsters, and Latimer sat still until the twin Colts had cleared leather. Then he palmed his Colt and thumbed off a single crashing shot. Dust spurted from the front of the killer’s blue checked shirt and a splotch of blood spread over the fabric. The man spilled his unfired weapons from his hands and pitched headlong across the girl, who still lay looking up at Latimer with mesmerized eyes.

  Latimer holstered his Colt and stepped down from his saddle. He stood six feet four inches in his high heeled riding boots. He bent and grasped the dead man by the feet and dragged him carelessly into the rocks. When he came back the girl was standing, holding his stirrup and leaning against the horse.

  ‘Lucky for you I was on hand,’ Latimer said brusquely. ‘You’re alright now. He can’t harm you from where he’s gone. You’d better take his horse. He killed yours.’

  He swung back into his saddle but the girl clung to his long leg, trembling from the reaction of the incident. Latimer turned his head slowly and studied the surrounding country. He didn’t like to sit too long in one place.

  ‘You can’t go and leave me!’ she cried. ‘My father and brother are lying dead in our cabin. They’ve just been murdered.’

  Latimer recognized hysteria in the girl’s voice, and his lips tightened. He hesitated, and in that moment was almost lost. He cursed Fate for letting him walk into another mess when all he wanted was to have a little
peace. He sighed and dismounted again.

  ‘If your folks are dead then there’s nothing I can do for them,’ he told her gently. ‘Why don’t you ride into the nearest town and tell the Sheriff?’

  ‘Sheriff Walsh wouldn’t come all this way out from Buffalo Springs,’ the girl cried wildly. ‘There’s no real law in Stott County.’

  ‘Stott County?’ Latimer stuck out his bottom lip. ‘I ain’t never heard of it.’

  ‘You would have if you lived hereabouts. Kenton Stott thinks he owns the world.’

  ‘One of that kind, eh?’ Latimer relaxed slightly. ‘And I suppose the feller I just killed was one of this man Stott’s riders.’

  ‘That was Waco Smith, a sidekick of Colley Rand himself.’

  ‘Colley Rand? Is he in this neck of the woods?’

  ‘He’s Kenton Stott’s top gunhand.’

  ‘Then I’m riding on. I don’t hanker on getting killed for letting daylight into a worthless gun hawk.’ Latimer looked at the girl closely for the first time, noting her grey eyes and glinting blonde hair. She was dressed in a light blue shirt and blue denim pants which had faded through regular washing. ‘You’d better get on that horse and ride into Buffalo Springs. I’ll go that far with you.’

  The girl sighed and bent to pick up her flat-crowned Stetson. She hurried to the killer’s horse, which stood with trailing reins, and sprang into the saddle. Latimer waited until she came abreast of him then fed steel to his mount. They rode at a canter from the rocks which concealed the dead gunman.

  ‘Why is this Stott character running you oft? Has your father been rustling some of his cattle?’

  ‘No, we never did!’ the girl retorted hotly. ‘It’s the same old story. These cattle kings think they have a right to the whole county. They won’t give smaller ranchers a chance. Stott says we are too close to his boundary. But we haven’t done a thing against him. There has been a range war going on for about a year; Stott and the other big ranchers to the north. Stott beat them. He had an army of gunmen bossed by Colley Rand. But now he’s settled his big war he’s turning on us smaller ranches.’

  ‘You said your father and brother have been murdered.’

  ‘This morning, not more than fifteen minutes ago.’ The girl’s dark eyes were in hard in her taut, grief-stricken face. Her bottom lip quivered. ‘Waco Smith and two gunmen came over. There was a lot of shooting, but they got my brother Pete. Then Smith shot my father. I lit out with him on my tail. You know how that ride finished.’

  Latimer nodded soberly. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Aggie Porter.’

  ‘My handle’s Latimer. Link Latimer.’

  ‘The Link Latimer?’

  ‘So you’ve heard of me.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I am the Link Latimer.’

  ‘Then you’re worse than the pack of wolves that Kenton Stott hires.’

  ‘Well I ain’t harming you. Seems like I done you a good turn. You should know you can’t judge horseflesh by its colour.’

  The girl nodded slowly. ‘There’s something in that. But what are you doing in this County? Job-hunting? Stott’s KS Ranch is crowded with gun-slingers. I should think that all the hardcases in the State were on Stott’s payroll. But now his big war is won he’s paid off most of them.’

  ‘Word of a range war travels a long way,’ Latimer said reflectively. ‘So there ain’t no law in these parts?’

  ‘Practically none. Deak Walsh is the Sheriff and he’s not very good at his job.’

  ‘Is this Kenton Stott a good man?’ Latimer demanded.

  ‘How do you mean good?’ the girl asked.

  ‘Is he an honest man fighting for what he owns or is he crooked and grabbing?’

  ‘You should come and look at our little spread.’ The girl’s voice tremored. ‘It belongs to us, and we have never bothered anyone. But Stott’s men have killed my father and brother and torn down our fences. Our few head of cattle are now running with Stott’s herd.’

  ‘Cattlemen are a queer breed,’ Latimer said quietly. ‘You say a man by the name of Colley Rand bosses Stott’s hell crew? I once knew a Colley Rand.’

  ‘Rand is poison. He’s a tall, white-faced feller with a soft, feminine voice. But he’s the worst of all Stott’s men. He’s faster on the draw than any gunman I’ve ever heard of, except a certain Link Latimer.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know too much about that,’ Latimer mused. ‘But it sounds as if he’s the same feller I once knew a long time ago. So this is where he’s settled. I heard he’d gotten himself killed. Things were pretty hot in Carlton County ten years ago. He was ramrodding a bunch of gunnies then. I did hear that he’d been outshot by some kid. But it don’t seem like it was so if he’s now gun boss for Stott.’

  ‘Are you planning on stickin’ around here?’ Aggie Ported demanded.

  ‘One more gun wouldn’t make any difference, would it?’ he asked, looking at her closely, taking in every detail of her clothes and figure.

  ‘You’ve done me a good turn, so I’d like to repay you a little. Take my advice, Mr Latimer. Don’t stay in Buffalo Springs. Keep riding. Pretty soon the law will catch up with Stott and his outfit. If you are there at the time you’ll get it too.’

  ‘My come-uppance has been a long time coming,’ Latimer said, and smiled with just one corner of his mouth. ‘It’ll catch up with me one day, I don’t doubt. But I’m heading west, Miss Porter. I’m looking for some place to settle down, somewhere I ain’t known. I’m trying to find that straight and narrow trail. But what just happened to me happens all the time. I just don’t seem able to get clear of trouble. It’s always waiting for me along the trail.’

  ‘You told me your name,’ Aggie said, lifting her troubled eyes to look at him. ‘You’d have to change your name before you could hope to live on the better side of the fence. Link Latimer is known by reputation clear to California.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He eased himself in his saddle and looked all around, satisfying himself that they were not being approached from any quarter. ‘I reckon I been around some since I climbed out of the cradle.’

  ‘But you haven’t been an out and out bad man, if I recall,’ she said suddenly. ‘I remember hearing some queer tales about you. How you helped a Sheriff over in Maddock Creek two years back. Then there was that stage hold-up in the big Bend country. You killed three bandits, and yet you are one yourself.’

  ‘They were bad killers,’ Latimer said shortly. ‘They were the kind who kill for the sake of killing.’ A shadow crossed his face like a muscular spasm. ‘I don’t like killers, and always make war on them when I come across them. It’s just like killing a snake. I know I ain’t no angel. I’ve been crooked for a long time. But I’ve never harmed anyone who hasn’t tried to harm or kill me. I sure don’t like killing!’

  He spoke with such emotion that she looked sideways at him. She studied his profile, noting how his eyes constantly watched all around them. His face was long and lean, brown, seamed by little crow’s feet at the corners of his blue eyes. His thick black eyebrows were pulled together darkly as he squinted against the glare of the blinding sun.

  He looked a ruthless hardcase, she thought, and shivered involuntarily. There was something undefinable about him, some force that was hidden by his mask-like exterior but apparent all the same. So this was the notorious Link Latimer! A thrill rippled through her, for he was not an old man. She had often thought that he must be because of the many things he had done. His every movement and breath bespoke of inner violence. She could sense it in him. As they rode, she remembered some of the tales she had heard about him, and wondered if so much badness in one man could be possible. But he had proved to her that there was something good inside his crooked heart. He had killed a man to save her.

  Latimer glanced at the girl now and again. He liked her straw-coloured hair; wisps of which could be seen peeping from under her Stetson. Her full lips were trembling, pulled down at the corners of her mouth, and the way she sat slumped in the saddle indic
ated the grief and hopelessness gripping her. She looked so forlorn and friendless that a pang struck him. It stabbed through the layers of hardness his violent years had wound around his heart.

  What a cruel world, he thought. There was always someone getting a raw deal. He thought back to his own tender years; the important years which had fashioned him into what he had become.

  ‘What do you plan on doing now?’ he asked her.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She sighed, looking at him with a quick glance. He saw tears glistening on her fair eyelashes. ‘What can I do? I am a mere woman. I’m no match Stott’s wolves. It looks as if I’ll have to pull out. I’ve got no menfolk left.’

  ‘You’re sure your folks are dead out at your place?’

  ‘Yes.’ A sob almost choked her.

  ‘Okay,’ Latimer said with a sigh. ‘Let’s go on to your place and look at the situation.’

  They rode on steadily until they sighted the girl’s home, which was a large wooden cabin walled with rough split logs. A smaller building of similar design stood beside the cabin, and beyond that was a small, well-fenced corral which held several horses.

  ‘Someone’s moving around in the house,’ Latimer said quickly. ‘Ride several yards behind me and, if there’s any shooting, get off your horse and lie flat. If it’s one of Stott’s men, I’ll take him. Drop back now and follow slow.’

  He touched spurs to his mount and jogged forward. He eased his Colt in its well-oiled holster and watched the cabin carefully as he approached. He had ridden up to the door of the cabin when a man, carrying a levelled rifle, emerged. The muzzle of the rifle was centred upon Latimer’s chest.

  ‘Who are you?’ Latimer demanded.

  ‘I’m asking you the same question, Mister,’ came the swift reply. ‘I’m Porter’s neighbour. I came in when I heard shooting some time back. Porter and his son are both dead — murdered — and — . Oh, there you are, Aggie. What’s been going on around here?’