Dutchmans Flat (Ss) (1986) (17 page)

A slow minute passed before he spoke. "So that's the way it is?" he said softly.

"That's the way it is. Right now you can offer your holdings to Ryerson. I know he has the money to buy them. Or you can sell out to Carol, if she's interested. But you sell out, Chet. You're the troublemaker here. With you gone, I think Ryerson and Hedrow could talk out a sensible deal."

"I'll talk," Hedrow said quietly, "and I'll listen."

Ryerson nodded. "That's good for me. And I'll buy, Chet. Name a price."

Chet Lee sat perfectly still. "So that's the way it is?" he repeated. "And if I don't figure to sell?"

"Then we take your gun and start you out of town," Krag said quietly.

Lee nodded. "Yeah, I see. You and Ryerson must have had this all figured out. A nice way to do me out of my ranch. And your quitting was all a fake."

"There was no plan," Moran said calmly. "You've heard what we have to say. Make your price. You've got ten minutes to close a deal or ride out without a dime."

Chet Lee's face did not alter its expression. "I see," he said. "But suppose something happens to you, Krag? Then what? Who here could make me toe the line? Or gamble I'd not come back?"

"Nothing's going to happen to me." Krag spoke quietly. "You see, Chet, I know your kind."

"Well," Chet shrugged, glancing around, "I guess you've got me." He looked at Ryerson.

"Fifty thousand?"

"There's not that much in town. I'll give you twelve, and that's just ten thousand more than you hit town with."

"Guess I've no choice," Chet said. "I'll take it." He looked at Krag. "All right if we go to the bank?"

"All right."

Chet swung his horse to the right, but as he swung the horse he suddenly slammed his right spur into the gelding's ribs. The bay sprang sharply left, smashing into Riggs and knocking him down. Only Krag's quick leap backwards against the print shop saved him from going down, too. As he slammed home his spur, Chet grabbed for his gun. It came up fast and he threw a quick shot that splashed Krag Moran's face with splinters; then he swung his horse and shot, almost point blank, into Krag's face!

But Moran was moving as the horse swung, and as the horse swung left, Moran moved away. The second shot blasted past his face and then his own guns came up and he fired, two quick shots. So close was Chet Lee that Krag heard the slap of the bullets as they thudded into his ribs below the heart.

Lee lost hold of his gun and slid from the saddle, and the horse, springing away, narrowly missed stepping on his face. Krag Moran stood over him, looking down. Riggs was climb
ing
shakily to his feet, and Chet was alive yet, staring at Krag. "I told you I knew your kind, Chet," Krag said quietly. "You shouldn't have tried it."

Carol Duchin was in the cafe when Krag Moran crossed the street. He had two drinks under his belt and he was feeling them, which was rare for him. Yet he hadn't eaten and he could not remember when he had.

She looked up when he came through the door and smiled at him. "Come over and sit down," she said. "Where's Dan?" Krag smiled with hard amusement. "Getting money from Ryerson to buy him a new printing outfit." "Hedrow?"

"Him and the nesters signed a contract to supply Ryerson with hay. They'd have made a deal in the beginning if it hadn't been for Chet. Hedrow tried to talk business once before. I heard him."

"And you?"

He placed his hat carefully on the hook and sat down. He was suddenly tired. He ran his fingers through his crisp, dark hair. "Me?" He blinked his eyes and reached for the coffeepot. "I am going to shave and take a bath. Then I'm going to sleep for twenty hours about, and then I'm going to throw the leather on my horse and hit the trail."

"I told you over there," Carol said quietly, "that I didn't want you to go."

"Uh-uh. If I don't go now," he looked at her somberly, "I'd never want to go again."

"Then don't go," she said. And he didn't.

AUTHOR'S NOTE West of the Tularosas The Tularosa Mountains lie west of the Plains of St. Augustine in New Mexico and just west of the Continental Divide. This was an area haunted by many of the old Apache chiefs, such as Mangas Colorado, Cochise, Geronimo, and Chato, and few settlers escaped their attentions.

Gold was discovered by soldiers, but the first attempts at mining were discouraged by the Apache. Stories of lost mines and buried gold are common, and somewhere about here or off to the north and west was the supposed site of the Lost Adams Diggings, subject of one of the most famous of lost-mine stories.

Off to the south lay Alma. Now the town is gone, as so many others are, without anything left but a name on a map. Alma was a hangout for Butch Cassidy, Elza Lay, Harvey Logan, and their friends.

One story has it that French, a local cattleman, was having trouble with rustlers, and one of his hands, a pretty tough lad himself, suggested to French that if he were to hire some friends of his who were passing through he would have no more trouble with rustlers. French did as advised, and the rustling promptly stopped. The rustlers were small fry and they wanted no trouble with the likes of Logan or Cassidy. Supposedly French had no idea who his new hands were, but it was obvious the rustlers did.

As a result, French's ranch near Alma became a regular stopping place for the Wild Bunch, a place where, using false names, they could conveniently disappear for a few weeks or months, as necessity demanded.

*

WEST OF THE TULAROSAS
.

The dead man had gone out fighting. Scarcely more than a boy, and a dandy in dress, he had been man enough when the showdown came.

Propped against the fireplace stones, legs stretched before him, loose fingers still touching the butt of his .45 Colt, he had smoked it out to a bloody, battle-stained finish. Evidence of it lay all about him. Whoever killed him had spent time, effort, and blood to do it.

As they closed in for the payoff at least one man had died on the threshold.

The fight that ended here had begun elsewhere. From the looks of it this cabin had been long deserted, and the dead man's spurs were bloodstained. At least one of his wounds showed evidence of being much older than the others. A crude attempt had been made to stop the bleeding.

Baldy Jackson, one of the Tumbling K riders who found the body, dropped to his knees and picked up the dead man's Colt. "Empty!" he said. "He fought 'em until his guns were empty, an' then they killed him."

"Is he still warm?" McQueen asked. "I think I can smell powder smoke."

"He ain't been an hour dead, I'd guess. Wonder what the fuss was about?"

"Worries me," McQueen looked around, "considering our situation."
He glanced at Bud Fox and Kim Sartain, who appeared in the doorway.
"What's out there?"

"At least one of their boys rode away still losing blood. By the look of things this lad didn't go out alone, he took some body with him." Sartain was rolling a smoke. "No feed in the shed, but that horse out there carries a mighty fine saddle."

"Isn't this the place we're headed for?" Fox asked. "It looks like the place described."

Sartain 's head came up. "Somebody comin'!" he said.
"Riders, an' quite a passel of them."

Sartain flattened against the end of the fireplace and Fox knelt behind a windowsill.

Ward McQueen planted his stalwart frame in the doorway, waiting. "This isn't so good.

We're goin' to be found with a dead man, just killed."

There were a half-dozen riders in the approaching group, led by a stocky man on a gray horse and a tall, oldish man wearing a badge.

They drew up sharply on seeing the horses and McQueen.
The short man stared at McQueen, visibly upset by his presence.
"Who're you? And what are you doin' here?"

"I'll ask the same question," McQueen spoke casually. "This is Firebox range, isn't it?"

"I know that." The stocky man's tone was testy. "I ought to. I own the Firebox."

"Do you now?"
Ward McQueen's reply was gentle, inquiring.
"Might be a question about that. Ever hear of Tom McCracken?"

"Of course! He used to own the Firebox."

"That's right, and he sold it to Ruth Kermitt of the Tumbling K. I'm Ward McQueen, her foreman. I've come to take possession."

His reply was totally unexpected, and the stocky man was obviously astonished. His surprise held him momentarily speech less, and then he burst out angrily.

"That's impossible! I'm holdin' notes against young Jimmy McCracken! He was the old man's heir, an' Jimmy signed the place over to me to pay up."

"As of when?" Ward asked.

His thoughts were already leaping ahead, reading signs along the trail they must follow. Obviously something was very wrong, but he was sure that Ruth's deed, a copy of which he carried with him, would be dated earlier than whatever this man had.

Moreover, he now had a hunch that the dead man lying behind him was that same Jimmy McCracken.

"That's neither here nor there! Get off my land or be drove of."

"Take it easy, Webb!" The sheriff spoke for the first time. "This man may have a just claim. If Tom McCracken sold out before he died, your paper isn't worth two hoots."

That this had occurred to Webb was obvious, and that he did not like it was apparent.

Had the sheriff not been present, Ward was sure, there would have been a shooting.

As yet, they did not know he was not alone, as none of the Tumbling K men had shown themselves.

"Sheriff," McQueen said, "my outfit rode in here about fifteen minutes ago, and we found a dead man in this cabin. Looks like he lost a runnin' fight with several men, and when his ammunition gave out, they killed him."

"Or you shot him," Webb said.

Ward did not move from the door. He was a big man, brown from sun and wind, lean and muscular. He wore two guns.

"I shot nobody." His tone was level, even. "Sheriff, I'm Ward McQueen. My boss bought this place from McCracken for cash money. The deed was delivered to her, and the whole transaction was recorded in the courts. All that remained was for us to take possession, which we have done."

He paused. "The man who is dead inside is unknown to me, but I'm making a guess he's Jimmy McCracken. Whoever killed him wanted him dead mighty bad. There was quite a few of them, and Jimmy did some good shootin'. One thing you might look for is a couple of wounded men, or somebody else who turns up dead."

The sheriff dismounted. "I'll look around, McQueen. My name's Foster, Bill Foster."

He waved a hand to the stocky cattleman. "This is Neal Webb, owner of the Runnin'
W."

Ward McQueen stepped aside to admit the sheriff, and as he did so Kim Sartain showed up at the corner of the house, having stepped through a window to the outside. Kim Sartain was said to be as good with his guns as McQueen.

Foster squatted beside the body. "Yeah, this is young Jimmy, all right. Looks like he put up quite a scrap."

"He was game," McQueen said. He indicated the older wound. "He'd been shot somewhere and rode in here, ridin' for his life. Look at the spurs. He tried to get where there was help but didn't make it."

Foster studied the several wounds and the empty cartridge cases. McQueen told him of the hard-ridden mustang, but the sheriff wanted to see for himself. Watching the old man, McQueen felt renewed confidence. The lawman was careful and shrewd, taking nothing for granted, accepting no man's unsupported word. That McQueen and his men were in a bad position was obvious.

Neal Webb was obviously a cattleman of some local importance.
The Tumbling K riders were not only strangers but they had been found with the body.

Webb was alert and aware. He had swiftly catalogued the Tumbling K riders as a tough lot, if pushed. McQueen he did not know, but the K foreman wore his guns with the ease of long practice. Few men carried two guns, most of them from the Texas border country. Nobody he knew of used both at once; the second gun was insurance, but it spoke of a man prepared for trouble.

Webb scowled irritably. The setup had been so perfect! The old man dead, the gambling debts, and the bill of sale. All that remained was to ... and then this outfit appeared with what was apparently a legitimate claim. Who would ever dream the old man would sell out? But how had the sale been arranged? There might still be a way, short of violence.

What would Silas Hutch say? And Ren Oliver? It angered Webb to realize he had failed, after all his promises. Yet who could have foreseen this? It had all appeared so simple, but who could have believed that youngster would put up a fight like he did?

He had been a laughing, friendly youngster, showing no sense of responsibility, no steadiness of purpose. He had been inclined to sidestep trouble rather than face it, so the whole affair had looked simple enough.

One thing after another had gone wrong. First, the ambush failed. The kid got through it alive and then made a running fight of it. Why he headed for this place Webb could not guess, unless he had known the Tumbling K outfit was to be here.