Collection 1999 - Beyond The Great Snow Mountains (v5.0) (4 page)

Talleyrand smiled slightly. “And it is your country.”

“Yes,” the American said quietly, “it is my country. It will always be my country, the only one for me. I have only learned that now…and now it is too late.”

Suddenly, he looked up and saw that Dick was in the doorway. Tom was moving nearer, and Garnet suddenly arose and stepped back.

The American’s hand was beneath his coat. “Talleyrand, watch yourself, sir. I have been waiting to warn you. Your life is in danger.”

Talleyrand did not move from the table. His eyes flickered over the faces, came to rest on that of Garnet. If he was surprised, he gave no evidence of it. This man, who was for many years to be Europe’s master of intrigue, who was to think always of his country and not of its ruler, was never to be surprised.

“You are clumsy, Paul. Had it not been for the storm, we would have gotten away from you.”

“It does not matter. There was the storm!”

“But we are warned.”

“And unarmed,” Garnet replied coolly, triumphant now.

“I am not.”

Their eyes turned to the American. He had drawn a pistol from beneath his dress coat. In his right hand he held the hilt of the still-sheathed saber.

There was something in that still, cold, handsome face that sent a shiver of apprehension through Garnet. This man…this man would not be afraid to die. He would die hard, and not alone.

De Fougier lurched backward, his face white. The three men faced the assassins. One pale and cowering, one tall and straight and cool, one the mysterious soldier, with a pistol in his hand.

“Well, gentlemen,” Talleyrand said coolly, “what is it to be? Are you ready to die, or will you retire quietly?”

Garnet was furious. He glared at the American. “He has but one shot, and there are four of us!”

The American smiled. “One shot, for
you
. And then the saber. I fancy the saber, my man. I was of the cavalry before this.”

Dick spoke up angrily. “Belay the gab! It’s him you want, ain’t it?” He pointed an outstretched finger at Talleyrand. “Then by the…!” He lunged, a dagger suddenly gripped in his fist.

The American’s pistol exploded and Dick halted in mid-stride, his mouth falling open. At the same instant there was a second explosion and Garnet turned half around, then fell across the corner of the table. The table tipped, crashed on its side, and the wine bottle rolled off, struck the fallen man on the back, then rolled off onto the floor. The American stood with drawn saber. But the two others fled into the storm, the wind slamming closed the door behind them.

The second shot had been fired by Talleyrand, who held a small pistol. There was a flicker of irony in the Frenchman’s eyes. “Yes, my American friend, even a diplomat knows that words must occasionally be backed with force.” He glanced at the fallen man. “Very likely you’ve saved my life.”

The American bent and retrieved the bottle from the floor. “And we did not break the wine.”

Talleyrand glanced at the bodies of the two men. “It would be just as well if we went to some other place. There’ll be trouble here soon.”

“Monsieur?”

Talleyrand turned to face the American. “Yes?”

“If you will take the advice of one who is gone from his own country—go back to France. If that is not politically possible now, then go back when you can, as soon as you can. Believe me, monsieur, far better than any other, I know there is no country like one’s own, and you will not be happy serving another.”

“It is good advice, but now we go to America. Could you give me letters of introduction to someone there? It would be a great favor.”

The American shook his head regretfully. “I am sorry, that I cannot do. I am perhaps the only American who cannot.”

Their eyes held. Talleyrand hesitated. “Then, your name, sir? You can tell me that.”

The American stiffened. His face was resigned and cold with pride and tragedy. “My name is Benedict Arnold.”

ROUNDUP IN TEXAS

I

T
HE INSTANT WARD McQueen saw the horsemen in the basin below, his heart leaped with quick apprehension. That would be Kim Sartain astride the sorrel, and the other riders, three of them, had him neatly boxed.

Touching spurs to the strawberry roan, McQueen went down the hill at a dead run, then slowed up as he neared the group. He saw Yost’s face flash with anger and disappointment as the man recognized him. Ward drew up.

“All right, boys,” he said. “Break it up!”

In a moment the situation had changed appreciably. The three riders had Sartain in such a position that he would be covered from three sides if he started to fire.

There would be no chance for escape.

Ernie Yost’s expression showed his uncertainty. The odds still favored them three to two, but now one of the three, Ike Taylor, had his back to McQueen. Ward had stopped his horse to the left rear of Sartain, and could fire at all three men without endangering Sartain. Taylor was now in the middle, between Ward and the guns of his two friends.

“If any shootin’ starts, boss,” Kim suggested quietly, “I’ll take Yost!”

Ernie’s face flamed with dark blood, but he hesitated. He was no fool. Kim Sartain had once flashed a gun in his presence at Sotol, against a half-crazed Mexican killer who had Kim covered, but the Mexican never got off a shot.

As for Ward McQueen, the foreman of the Tumbling K had held a reputation in Texas long before he went off to Wyoming and Nevada. He was known to be a deadly gunfighter. Taylor was as good as dead if shooting started, and without Taylor, Ernie Yost wanted no part of it.

Yost spoke calmly. “This rider of yours is on the prod, McQueen. He ordered us off the range.”

“What business have you here?” McQueen demanded.

Ike Taylor was sweating blood in his present position. He started to shift around.

McQueen’s voice was sharp. “Ike, you sit still or I’ll drill you!”

Taylor swallowed and sat still, his eyes haunted. He was filled with regrets, wishing he were in Sotol, or any other place but here.

Yost’s face had darkened again. “A man has a right to ride anywhere he wants!”

“No, he doesn’t!” McQueen wasn’t hedging. Had he arrived thirty seconds later, Sartain might have been dead. “You don’t run any cattle, Yost. You have no business on this range at any time. We’re working cattle here, and we don’t like rustlers. Now you get off and stay off!”

Yost was bursting with hatred. His hands trembled as he strove to compose himself. “Some day you’ll go too far, Ward!”

“Call it when you’re ready!” Ward answered sharply. He stepped his horse nearer at a walk. He was angry and ready. “Why not now?”

No one had ever accused Ernie Yost of cowardice, yet, in this situation, he could see no hope. He had never faced deadlier gunmen than Ward McQueen and his dark-faced
segundo
, Kim Sartain.

“All right,” he flared suddenly. “I’ll stay off!” He turned his horse with a jerk and started to walk away. Villani and Taylor wasted no time in following.

The two riders sat on their horses and watched until they were over the rise. “Reckon we ought to follow?” Sartain wondered.

“No. Let’s get back. There’s work to do.”

Sartain glanced up at him. “You showed up at the right time, boss,” he said dryly. “Another minute and they would have had me.”

“They were set for a killing, all right,” Ward agreed. “I don’t savvy it. Ever had any trouble with them?”

“Not until I ordered them off.” Sartain was puzzled. “But there’s more to this than meets the eye.”

They rode away. But as they topped the rise, Ward removed his hat and anxiously mopped his brow as he stared down at the dusty herd below them. When Ward had bought that stock from Old Dick Gerber, it had looked like a godsend. Long ago, he had worked for Gerber, and knew the tight-fisted old rancher well. That was before Ward had gone to Nevada and become foreman of the Tumbling K, Ruth Kermitt’s ranch.

In all his dealings, the old man had seemed to be strictly honest and reliable, so when he showed McQueen a tally book, and the records amounted to over four thousand head, Ward decided to buy. The price seemed reasonable enough. Ward had, however, insisted upon a guarantee. At first Gerber had balked, but finally agreed to guarantee three thousand head.

The guarantee was something on which Ward would never have insisted had he been buying the herd for himself. He just wanted to be sure that Ruth got her money’s worth. The price he paid had been for four thousand head, the whole procedure handled in the somewhat loose and careless manner typical of the West of that era.

Now, however, the number of cattle was running far below four thousand, and McQueen could not understand it. He still firmly believed that Dick Gerber’s count was honest, and knowing the old man, he knew that Gerber’s methods were not slipshod.

“The tally’s fallin’ short, ain’t it?” Sartain asked. He knew McQueen was worried. “Do you suppose Yost would know anything about that?”

“How could he? Our own boys are handlin’ this roundup. Yost hasn’t been around—just my riders and the few of Gerber’s I kept on to handle the branding.”

Buying as he had, without waiting for the completed tally, he had saved money, for Gerber had insisted that the deal be made before the roundup. The difference was considerable. Now it could take all their profit away.

The ranch in Nevada had been making money steadily, and it had been Ruth Kermitt’s idea to stock it with more cattle. They could, she suggested, pick up a herd in Texas and drift it north, letting it feed as it moved.

McQueen liked the plan. With luck they could sell enough cattle at the railheads in Kansas or Nebraska to pay expenses, and possibly, with luck, even pay for the herd.

Buying cattle on the range could often prove very profitable, for in many cases the completed tally would run higher than the estimate. McQueen, knowing Gerber, had little hope of exceeding the tally.

“Bud” Fox and “Baldy” Jackson, the two hands that had come south with them, were drifting their way. “Brought in about thirty head,” Bud volunteered as they drew near.

“Any unbranded stock?”

“Nope. Gerber must have figured wrong on that because most of the stuff we’re findin’ has to be vented.”

“Where is that KT rep?” Ward asked. He started to build a smoke, studying the cattle thoughtfully.

“Buff Colker?” Jackson rubbed a hand over his bald pate. “He’s off to Sotol, as always. Said he had to mail a letter.”

Sartain chuckled. “Shucks, Baldy! You’re just jealous because you can’t go in, too.”

“Jealous?” Baldy snorted. “Of that Kansas City cowhand?”

“Buff sure ain’t around much,” Bud Fox agreed. “He takes his reppin’ job easy.”

“If those outfits he’s workin’ for can stand it, we can,” McQueen said. “How’s it look back in the breaks, Bud?”

“Cleaned out, almost. There’s a few steers around that we might pick up, but most of them are wild as deer.”

Forget them,” Ward advised, “they aren’t worth it. We could waste a month combing that chaparral an’ never get them out.”

Kim Sartain spoke thoughtfully. “You know that Colker hombre sure puzzles me. He says he goes to Sotol, but remember that time you sent me in after some smokin’ for the boys? Well, Buff was supposed to be there, too, but I didn’t see him.”

“Maybe you just didn’t run into him,” Bud said.

“In Sotol?” Sartain stared at Fox with utmost disgust. “You couldn’t hide a pack rat in that place! You could cover the whole durned town under a Mexican’s saddle blanket!”

Ward McQueen reined in and lounged loosely in the saddle, staring unhappily at the herd. Tonight he would ride in and have a talk with Ruth. He would have to tell her that his deal had been a poor one. Scowling, he tried to think if there was any spot they had somehow missed. Still, with Perkins, Gallatin, Jensen, and Lopez working for them, all men who knew this range, there was small chance of overlooking anything.

When the hands finished bunching the herd, Kim drifted his way again. “Riding into Sotol, boss?”

McQueen slanted his eyes at the casual young rider. “Yeah, what about it?”

“Nothin’.” Kim shrugged carelessly. “Figured you might let me ride along. Sort of wash some of the dust out of my throat!”

Ward grinned. Few men cared so little for drinking as Kim Sartain. The rider was a top hand, but he liked a good fight, and Ward knew he was thinking of Yost.

“I don’t want any trouble, Kim. You know how Miss Kermitt is.”

Sartain turned his horse, riding toward the ranch house beside McQueen. “Boss, when are you and Miss Kermitt tyin’ the knot?”

Ward looked around. “We don’t plan on gettin’ married until we get back to Nevada.” He shrugged. “Maybe after she hears what a bad deal I made for her, she won’t want to.”

“Boss,” Kim said hesitantly, “did you ever figure that maybe this Gerber lied? He wouldn’t swear there was over three thousand.”

Ward spat and swung the horse up to the corral. “Did you ever see the time you could swear to how many head you had on a ranch? I never could.”

Sartain got down and began stripping the saddle from his sorrel. “I could guess within a thousand head,” he replied.

Ward McQueen stopped a moment and frowned uneasily. Maybe he had been wrong in trusting Gerber. After all, the old man was notoriously tight-fisted, and he might not be above dishonesty with a man who came from so far away, and was on his way back. The thought rankled McQueen.

II

R
uth Kermitt was waiting for him on the steps of the hotel when he cantered up the street and swung down. She was smiling as he joined her.

“After you talk to me,” he said, “you may not look so happy. Have you eaten?”

“Yes, but I want some more coffee with you.”

She was a tall girl, her dark hair gathered in a loose knot at the nape of her neck. Her wide, blue eyes examined his face as he lifted his cup. She could see the lines of weariness etched there, the worry in his eyes.

“What’s wrong, Ward?” she asked.

He sighed. “We bought four thousand head accordin’ to Gerber’s tally book. We won’t get more than three thousand.”

Her lips tightened. “Oh! I was afraid of something like that.”

“Me, I’d have sworn by Gerber.”

The door to the room smashed back suddenly, and Ward looked around. Five men had come into the cafe. In the lead, his blue eyes flashing from his brown, wind-burned face, his untrimmed white hair falling to his shoulders, was Old Dick Gerber. Behind him were four hard-faced riders.

Gerber sighted Ward and crossed the room swiftly.

“McQueen!” Gerber’s voice rang in the narrow room. “It’s come to my ears that you say I lied about my tally on that herd! Did you call me a liar?”

As Ward McQueen carefully got to his feet, the door opened quietly behind him.

“I’m with you, boss.” It was Kim Sartain’s voice.

“No, Dick, I didn’t say you lied.”

“The great McQueen, takin’ water!” sneered one of the riders. A big man known as Black.

Ward’s eyes shifted to Black. “I’m not takin’ water. It’s just I’ve known Dick Gerber a lot longer than I expect to know you.”

His eyes turned to Gerber’s. “Dick, you sold me four thousand head of cattle according to your tally. I took your word and the word of your book. I worked for you, an’ that tally book of yours was somethin’ to swear by. I had no doubts.”

Gerber stared at him, still resentful. “What’s the fuss about then?” he demanded.

“Because we’ve had our roundup, an’ we’ve only netted three thousand head.”

“Three thousand?” Gerber stared. “Ward, you’re crookin’ me! If you only found three thousand head, you’ve snuck some off somewheres.” His mouth tightened. “Ah? Maybe that’s it? Maybe you figure to get me on that guarantee! Well, I won’t stand for it, Ward!”

Ward’s face flushed. “All I want is a square deal.”

“He’s askin’ for trouble, Gerber,” Black said. “Let me have him.”

“Listen, big ears,” Sartain took a step into the room, “if you’re so anxious to throw iron, suppose you come out in the street an’ throw it with me?”

“Kim!”
Ward barked. “Stop it!” Ward wheeled on Black. “And you shut up! Gerber, get that man out of here, and get him out fast! If we start shootin’ in this room, nobody will get out alive. And we’ve a woman here, remember that!”

Dick Gerber’s anger left him. Realization broke over him that what Ward said was true. Ruth Kermitt was there. To throw a gun when a woman was present was out of reason.

“Quiet down!” Gerber snapped. “You, Black, mind what I say.” He turned back to McQueen. “I’m sorry, Ward. Maybe I went off half-cocked, but I sure ain’t the man to bunco anybody. I figure you of all people knew that.”

“Mr. Gerber,” Ruth said quietly, “just before you came in Ward was saying that even though there was a problem he would swear by you.”

The old man looked around. “I guess I’m a fool,” he said, and dropped into a chair. “I never figured on makin’ a shootin’ match of it, Ward. I was just too mad to think.”

“Forget it and let’s have a talk.” Ward glanced at Sartain. “Kim, we don’t want any trouble.”

“That goes for you boys, too,” Gerber told his men. “Ward an’ me’ll find some peaceful way to handle this.”

As the hands trooped out, the door pushed open and into the room swaggered a big man, broad shouldered and blond. He was nattily dressed in black and he smiled when he saw Ruth.

“Oh, Miss Kermitt! I was looking for you. They told me in the office that you had come in here with one of the hands. Are you ready now?”

Ward McQueen looked around, astonished. The man was Buff Colker, the rep for the KT outfit, but he had never looked like this on the range. Then, as Colker’s meaning swept over him, his face flushed and he glanced around at Ruth.

“Why, yes, Mr. Colker, just one minute.” She turned quickly to Ward and put her hand on his. “I wasn’t sure that you’d be in tonight,” she said, “and Mr. Colker asked if he might call. Do you mind?”

For a moment Ward McQueen sat still, resentment burning within him. He had a half notion to say that he certainly did mind. Then he shrugged it off.