Collection 1999 - Beyond The Great Snow Mountains (v5.0) (5 page)

“No,” he said, “I’ve got to talk with Gerber, anyway.”

Yet as she arose and walked with Buff Colker into the other room, he glared after them. “Make a nice-lookin’ couple,” Gerber suggested thoughtfully. “She ain’t married, is she?”

“We came here to talk about cattle.” McQueen’s voice had a faint rasp.

“Sure,” Gerber agreed. He pulled his tally book from his pocket. “Got money, that young Colker has. I often wonder why he works for the KT, but maybe he figures to go into the cattle business.”

He put on his glasses and peered at the book. “Now let’s see: there were a couple of hundred head in Seminole Canyon. Did you get those out?”

T
WO HOURS LATER Ward McQueen stalked into the saloon, irritated and unhappy. Despite their discussion and the careful checking of the record Gerber had kept, there was no accounting for the missing cattle. Yet a thousand head of cattle cannot just vanish, nor can they be hidden with ease.

Sartain was sitting alone at a card table idly riffling a deck of cards. He had his flat-brimmed gray hat shoved back on his head and was watching Black like a cat. The big gunman looked around when Ward came in, and watched as he walked over and dropped into a chair with Kim.

Sartain riffled the cards through his fingers and, without looking up, commented, “That Black has money. He buys drinks pretty free for a forty-dollar cowhand.”

He has money. The words flitted through McQueen’s mind, and then were lost as the door shoved open and Ernie Yost came in, accompanied by Villani and Taylor.

Taylor averted his eyes hastily. One of the three, McQueen reflected, was content to let well enough alone. Watching them, Ward was struck by the fact that Yost, staring straight across the bar, was speaking out of the corner of his mouth. The man beside him was Black.

Black’s eagerness for trouble and a few words exchanged with Yost lingered in Ward’s brain. What was between those two? Was Black tied in with Yost? What was going on around here?

“Let’s leave, Kim. We’ve got a hard day tomorrow.”

Mounting, they turned down the trail toward the ranch, but as he glanced back, Ward saw Ruth saying good night to Colker on the steps of the hotel. “He’s got money.” That was what Gerber had said of Colker. It was also what Sartain had said of Black. Could there be a tie-up there? Did their money come from the same source? Or was jealousy leading him down a blind alley?

What was the source of Black’s money? The man had the earmarks of an owlhoot.

“Glad you got me out of there,” Kim said, “I reckon I’m sleepier’n I thought.”

Sleepier was right.
Sleep—er
.

Ward’s dark mood was gone in a flash. He jerked around in the saddle. “Kim, have you been over to that herd of cattle we’ve cut for the other brands?”

Kim looked up, half awake. “No, why should I? We’re through with them.”

There must be at least two or three thousand head of KT, Broken Arrow, and Running M cattle in that herd, McQueen thought. That was a big herd, a very big herd.

I
T WAS ALMOST noon the next day when he rode down to the roundup crew. McQueen had been thinking and checking. Sartain was sitting on a small gray horse, and Jackson was nearby. They had just knocked off for a brief rest.

Perkins and Lopez were sitting on the ground while Gallatin and Jensen were just riding up. Ward dropped from his horse and walked up to Lopez.

“Lopez, what horse did you ride yesterday?”

Lopez hesitated. “Bay pony,
señor
.”

“A bay?” Baldy looked around. “You must be forgetful. You rode that blaze-faced black with the broken hind hoof.” The Mexican looked at him, then got to his feet, and he suddenly looked sick.

“That’s right, Lopez.” McQueen’s thumbs were tucked in his belt, and around him the other riders were silent. “Now tell me what you were doing moving cattle at midnight.”

“I,
señor
?” Lopez’s eyes shifted right and left. “I was moving no cattle. I was in my bunk, asleep.”

“A lie!” Ward’s tone was brutal and he moved a step nearer. “You took that black horse out again, and you an’ somebody else cut some cattle from the unbranded herd and moved them over into those mixed brands!”

“Sleeperin’, by golly!” Baldy slapped his leg. “Sleeperin’! Why didn’t I figure that? An’ nobody ever checks that herd of mixed brands. After we’re finished here, they’ll just be left to drift back on the range from that long valley where you’re holdin’ ’em.”

“And then these rannies could move in an’ brand the unbranded stock for themselves. Nice business.” Bud Fox dropped a hand to his six-shooter. “Do we down him, boss?”

“Not if he talks.” Ward walked up to the Mexican, whose face was a sickly yellow now. “Lopez, who’s bossin’ this show? Tell me an’ you can go free.”

“Let me have a hand at him!” Gallatin shoved forward, his face grim and his eyes narrow. “I’ll fix him for you!”

“Keep out of this!” Ward snapped. “I’ll talk to you, later! I’ve a good notion you’re the other one in this mess!”

Gallatin sprang back, his face suddenly wolfish. “Oh, you think so, do you? Well, by—” His hand swept down for his gun.

“Stop!” Ward yelled. “Drop it or I’ll kill you!”

Gallatin was crouching and his gun kept lifting. “Drop, nothin’!”

Ward palmed his six-gun in a flashing movement and flame stabbed from the black muzzle. His own gun coming up too slow, Gallatin caught the lead slugs in the stomach. He gulped, then staggered slowly back, his eyes glazing, the gun slipping from nerveless fingers.

III

H
ooves clattered and a shout went up. McQueen whirled in time to see Lopez streaking away on the horse the Mexican had just freshly saddled. Ward’s gun came up, but the rustler was in a direct line with two men on the far side of the herd, and he dared not fire.

“Gone!” He swore. “He got plumb away.”

Baldy Jackson reached for his bridle reins. “Boss, we’d better get at that mixed herd. Now they’ll probably move in an’ try to rustle the works. We’d better start cuttin’ her.”

“We’re not in on any deal with Gally or the Mex,” Jensen said. “You can ask Dick Gerber. I rode for him four years.”

Ward glanced around at them. “Either of you know their friends? Who did they see in Sotol?”

Jensen hesitated. “Well, I reckon that Black who still rides for Gerber was the only one. They were pretty thick when they both rode for this spread. And then Villani. He worked for Gerber for a while, then left him after some trouble over a bridle, and he went to hangin’ out with Ernie Yost.”

“That fits.” Sartain nodded. “They all run together. The same brand wears well on them. Let’s go coyote huntin’, boss.”

Ward McQueen hesitated. That was one thing, but the cattle came first. He must at all costs protect Ruth’s cattle. “No, we’d better start workin’ that mixed herd an’ cuttin’ our unbranded stock out of it.”

“Boss, that Mex didn’t head for Sotol,” Bud suggested. “He took out for the mountains an’ I’ve a good idea he’s more set on gettin’ safe away than tellin’ Yost what happened here. Why don’t we lay low an’ check that herd today?”

“All right.” Jensen was facing Ward, and he motioned to the body of Gallatin. “Plant him over by those trees, will you? Before anybody sees him. And I don’t want it mentioned all day, you hear? Not in front of anybody!”

Sartain crooked a leg around his saddle horn. “Boss, I reckon Buff Colker will be out here soon.”

“I said
anybody
.” Ward turned to Bud. “I like your idea. We’ll start cutting the mixed herd again tomorrow. Today we’ll keep on with the branding, and tonight,” he glanced at Baldy, then at Kim, “tonight we’ll stand guard by that unbranded herd. If anybody starts to move those cattle we’ll be ready for them.”

The day drew on, hot and dusty. There was no breeze, and Ward nervously glanced at the sky from time to time. It felt like a storm was building up.

A cloud of dust hung over the corral where the branding was done, and the hands kept working up new bunches of cattle from the herd of the unbranded. Sartain was handling a rope, and Baldy was working with a branding iron. Buff Colker had arrived and sat his paint horse near the corral.

“KT, one calf!” Baldy yelled, slapping the iron on the animal, which bawled plaintively. “Tumblin’ K! One calf!”

Colker checked the KT in his tally book and wiped the dust and perspiration from his brow. Ward McQueen was studiously avoiding the KT rep. He put his rope on a white-face steer and spilled the beast close to the fire. Baldy slapped the iron and yelled, “Tumblin’ K! One steer!”

Colker slapped his book shut and turned his horse. “Guess I’ll ride along, McQueen,” he said, “I’ve got business in town!”

Ward glanced around, his lips tight. “Go ahead,” he said. “We don’t need you here.”

Buff laughed sardonically. “Maybe there’s somebody else that needs me.”

McQueen’s face flamed. “I don’t know what you mean by that, Buff,” he said evenly, “but you’d better be ridin’.”

“That lady boss of yours seems to like what I say. Pretty little thing, I’ll say that for her.”

McQueen turned his roan. “If you’re goin’,” he warned, “you better hightail it while the goin’s good.”

Colker laughed, his eyes hard and the sneer evident. “Ward,” he said, “you’re a fool! After I’ve had my way with her, I’ll come back here an’ teach you a couple of things!”

He wheeled his horse and started at a gallop toward the Sotol trail. Ward McQueen’s face went hard and white, and he wheeled his horse and went after Buff like a streak.

“Lord help that Colker now!” Baldy said. “The boss is sure boilin’. I wondered how much he’d take from that four-flusher!”

“Look!” Kim yelled excitedly. “This is goin’ to be good!”

Too late, Buff Colker turned to see what was happening. Ward’s roan had covered the ground in a short dash that brought him alongside Colker’s galloping horse. Quickly, Ward reached down and grabbed the paint horse’s tail and whipped it to one side, shoving the horse hard with his knee.

It was a process used often on the range to throw a steer, and when the animal, whether horse or cow, was traveling at all rapidly, it would invariably be spilled on the head and shoulder. It was known as “tailing,” but was rarely used on a horse unless the animal was of little or no value.

Colker and the animal went flying. He sprang to his feet and clawed for his gun, then stopped. Ward was on the ground facing him, and had him covered. Colker had never even seen Ward draw.

A dozen cowhands had crowded around. “Bud,” Ward said, “take his gun. I’m goin’ to teach this cowboy a lesson!”

“What do you mean?” Colker snarled. His face was white, but his eyes blazed. “You aimin’ to shoot me down like a dog?”

“No,
amigo
,” Ward said harshly, “I’m goin’ to beat your thick skull in with my fists.”

Abruptly, Buff grinned. “You’re goin’ to fight me with your hands? I’ll kill you!”

Fox slid the gun from Buff Colker’s holster, and Ward stepped over to Kim Sartain and hung his own gun belts around his saddle horn. Then he turned.

Across the wide ring of horsemen, he faced Buff Colker. Buff was the bigger man, young, wide-shouldered, and tough. He was smiling and confident. Buff paused long enough to strip off his shirt. Ward did likewise. Then the two men moved together.

Colker came fast and lashed out with a left that caught Ward coming in, but failed to stop him. McQueen crowded Colker and threw a short left, palm up, into Buff’s midsection as they came together, Ward turning his body with the punch. It jolted Buff, but he jerked away and smashed both hands to Ward’s face. Ward tried to duck a left, and caught another right. Then he closed in and threw Colker hard with a rolling hip-lock. Buff came up fast and dived at Ward’s knees and they both went down, and then they were up and fighting, toe to toe, slugging. The two men came together, throwing their punches with everything they had in them.

Eyes blazing with fury, Buff sprang close, swinging with both hands. The dust rose from around their feet in a thick cloud, so at times the fighting could scarcely be seen. Neither man would give an inch and they fought bitterly, brutally, at close quarters. This was old stuff to Ward, for he had battled in many a cow camp brawl, and he kept moving in, his head spinning and dizzy with rocking blows, his hands always set to punch.

Blood trickled from a cut lip, and he had the taste of it in his mouth. Overhead the sky was like a sheet of iron, molten with heat. Ward set himself and slammed a right to the body. Again Buff was jolted, and he stepped back, and McQueen moved in, advancing his left foot then his right. He worked in, then threw his right again. Buff’s hands came down and Ward lunged, swinging high and hard with both fists, and Colker went down in the dust and rolled over.

“Put the boots to him!” Baldy said. “He’d give them to you!”

“Let him get up!” Ward panted. “I want more of him!”

Colker staggered to his feet and stood there weaving, the hatred in his eyes a living thing. He lunged, suddenly. But Ward met him with a stiff left hand that stopped him flat-footed and left him wide open for a clubbing right. It caught Colker flush on the ear, and Buff went down to his knees, the ear beginning to puff almost as he hit the ground.

Ward moved in, staggering with exhaustion. He jerked Colker to his feet and, holding him with his left, struck him twice in the wind and then three blows with his right in the face. Then he shoved the man from him, and Buff staggered and tumbled into the dust.

McQueen walked back to his horse and leaned against it for an instant, then picked up his shirt and began to wipe his face and body with it.

“Better get started on those cows,” he commented. “We’ve a lot to do.”

Baldy stared at him grimly. “You better go up to the cook shack and get that face fixed up,” he suggested. “You look like chopped beef. But not,” he added with satisfaction, “near so bad as he does!”

Colker was still stretched on his face, and Bud Fox glanced at him. “Shall we pick him up?” he asked.

“Let him lay!” Baldy told him. “He needs the rest!”