Novel 1954 - Utah Blaine (As Jim Mayo) (v5.0) (10 page)

Rip’s bandage was fresh. They had awakened the doctor for that, and he had bandaged the scalp wound after making some ironic comments about hard heads.

“Anything for publication?” Forbes asked, finally.

Blaine looked up. His eyes were bloodshot. “Why, sure,” he grinned suddenly, “say that Utah Blaine, manager of the 46 Connected, is vacationing in the hills for a few days but expects to be back at Headquarters soon. You might add that he expects to return to attend the funerals of several of the leading citizens of the valley—and he hopes their respected banker, Ben Otten, will not be one of them.”

Otten looked up, his face flushing. Before he could open his mouth, however, there was a clatter of horse’s hoofs and then boots struck the boardwalk and the door burst open.

In the open door, her face flushed from riding in the wind, her dark eyes bright with excitement, was Angie Kinyon!

“Utah! You’ve got to ride!” She was breathless with hurry. “Lee Fox struck your trail and he’s coming right on with a pack of men. Nevers joined him outside of town! Hurry, please!”

Blaine got to his feet, hitching his gun belts. He looked across the table at Angie and his eyes softened. “Thanks,” he said. “Thanks very much!”

Mary Blake looked startled. Her eyes went quickly from one to the other. Ralston Forbes was watching her and he was smiling.

Chapter 11

W
HEN THEY WERE gone Mary Blake looked over at Angie. “It’s a surprise to see you here, Angie,” she said graciously, but with just the slightest edge to her voice. “You don’t often ride to town. Especially at this hour.”

Angie smiled gaily, but her mind was not in the room. It was out there on the trail with the galloping horses. Forbes could see it, and so could Mary. “No,” Angie said, “I don’t often come in, but when a friend is in danger, that changes everything.”

“I didn’t know you even knew Utah Blaine,” Mary said too casually.

“We only met once.”

“Once?” Mary was ironic. Her chin lifted slightly. Ralston Forbes grinned. He was seeing Mary Blake jealous for the first time and it amused him.

Angie was suddenly aware. She smiled beautifully. “Isn’t once enough?”

“I suppose it is,” Mary replied stiffly, “but if I were you, Angie, I’d be careful. You know how these drifting punchers are.”

“No.” Angie’s voice was deadly sweet. “You tell me. How are they, Mary?”

Mary Blake’s face went white and she started from her chair. “What do you mean by that?” she flared. “What are you trying to insinuate?”

Angie’s surprise was eloquent. “Why nothing! Nothing at all, Mary! Only you seemed so worried about me, and your advice sounded so—so experienced.”

Mary Blake turned abruptly to Forbes, but before she could speak there was a clatter of horses’ hoofs. A dozen riders swung to a halt before the door. It smashed open and Lee Fox stepped in. “Where are they? Where’s Blaine?”

Angie turned slowly and looked at him, her eyes cool. She said nothing at all. Mary shrugged and walked to the window and Lee’s face flamed with anger. He stepped into the room and strode toward Angie. “You!” he shouted, his face contorted. “You just rode in! I seen your horse out here, all lathered! You warned him!”

“And what if I did?” Her eyes blazed. “I should stay here and let an honest man be murdered by a pack of renegade land thieves?”

Lee Fox gasped. His anger rendered him speechless. “Thieves?” He all but screamed the word. “You call us thieves? What about that—that—”

“I call you thieves.” Angie said it quietly. “Lee Fox, neither you nor anyone else has one particle of claim to that land, nor to the B-Bar. Both ranches were used by far better men who got here first. You’ve been snarling like a pack of coyotes around a grizzly for years. Now the bear is dead and you rush in like the carrion hunting scavengers you are, to grab off the ranches they built! You have no vestige of claim on either place except your greed. If anyone has a just claim on the 46 it is Utah Blaine.”

“Utah?” Fox was wild, incredulous. “What claim would he have?”

“He was left in charge. That is claim enough. At least,” she shrugged, “it is more claim than you have.” Her tone changed. “Why don’t you be sensible, Lee? Go back to your ranch and be satisfied with what you have while there’s still a chance? You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Fox stepped toward her, his eyes glittering. “You—you—” His hand lifted.

“Fox!” Forbes barked the name, and Lee froze, shocked into realization. His eyes swung and stopped. Ralston Forbes held a six-shooter in his hand. “You make another move toward that girl and I’ll kill you!”

Fox lowered his hand slowly, controlling himself with an effort. “You keep out of this,” he said thickly.

“Fox, you’ve evidently forgotten how people think of Angie Kinyon in this country. If you struck her your own men would hang you. You’d not live an hour.”

“I wasn’t goin’ to hit her.” Fox controlled himself, pressing his lips together. “She ain’t got no right to talk that way.”

“When your common sense overcomes your greed, Fox, you’ll see that every word she said was truth. Furthermore,” Forbes said quietly, “I intend to print just that in my paper tomorrow!”

Fox’s eyes were ugly. “You do an’ I’ll smash that printin’ press an’ burn you out! You been carryin’ it high an’ mighty long enough. There’s a new system comin’ into bein’ around here. If you don’t think like we do, we’ll either change you or kill you!”

Forbes was tall. He looked taller now. “That’s your privilege to try, Fox. But I wouldn’t if I were you. There are some things this country won’t tolerate. Abuse of a good woman and interference with a free press are two of them.”

Fox stared at Mary Blake. He started to speak, then turned abruptly and strode from the room. Then there was a rattle of horses’ hoofs and they were gone.

“Thanks, Rals,” Angie said. “He would have hit me.”

Forbes nodded. “And I’d have killed him. And I’ve never killed a man, Angie.”

“At least,” Angie said, “Blaine will have more of a start. They’ll not catch him now.”

“No.”

Mary Blake turned from the window. “What about you, Rals? You’d better not try to fight them. You’re all alone here.”

“Alone?” Forbes shook his head. “No, I’m not alone. There’s a dozen men here in town who’ll stand by me: Ryan, the blacksmith, Jordan, the shoemaker, all of them.”

I
T WAS ONLY an hour later that news reached Red Creek of the attack on the Big N. Ben Otten was in the cafe talking to Forbes when a Big N hand came in. They listened to Rocky White’s recital of what had happened. Ten tons of hay gone! Although worth twenty-five dollars a ton now, the hay would be priceless before the coming winter was gone.

And the ranch house had been shot up. More and more he was beginning to realize that once trouble was started anything could happen. He tried his coffee and stared glumly out the window.

Rocky White said nothing for a few minutes. Then he commented, “The Old Man’s fit to be tied. He’s sure cuttin’ capers over this shootin’. I wonder what he figured would happen when he braced Utah Blaine? Lucky the man isn’t an out an’ out killer. He’d have killed Nevers by now.”

“What’s Nevers goin’ to do?” Otten asked.

“He’s importin’ gunmen. He’s goin’ to hunt Blaine down an’ kill him. He’s sent Witter after some gunslingers. He’s goin’ to offer a flat thousand for Blaine’s scalp, five hundred for the other two. Five hundred each, that is.”

“That will blow the lid off. We’ll have a United States Marshal in here.”

The cowhand got up. “Yeah, an’ a good thing, too,” he said. “Well, so long.” He glanced around. “I’m draggin’ my freight. I want no part of it.”

T
HE LEAVE-TAKING OF Rocky White created a restlessness among the other hands. Two of Otten’s oldest cowhands suddenly pulled out without even talking to him, leaving wages behind. A man quit Fox the same way. In the meanwhile, however, men came in to replace them, five of them were gunfighters.

Now the chase was growing intense. One by one the waterholes were being located and men were staked out near them. Blaine found that Rice’s cabin was no longer safe. It was being watched. Even the corral back in the brush had been located and was under constant observation. Blaine struck Fox’s Table Mountain outfit at midnight on the third day after the Big N raid. Only two men were at home. They were tied up, the horses were turned loose and driven off, the water trough ripped out and turned over, the corral burned.

Clell Miller and Timm exchanged shots but both missed. Rip Coker came upon one, Pete Scantlin, an Indian tracker working for Nevers’ man-hunters. The Indian had his eyes on the ground. He looked up suddenly and saw Rip sitting his horse, and the Indian threw up his rifle. His shot went wild when Rip’s .44 ripped through his throat. The body was found an hour later. Written in the dust alongside the body were the words:

NO QUARTER FOR MAN-HUNTERS.
YOU ASK FOR IT, YOU GET IT.

Soon after two of Nevers’ gunhands shot up Red Creek while on a drunken spree, wounding one by-stander with flying glass. Forbes’ paper came out on schedule with a headline that shouted to the world and all who would read:

LAWLESSNESS RAMPANT IN VALLEY.
ATTEMPTED LAND GRAB BY NEVERS,
FOX AND OTTEN LEADS TO KILLINGS

That night men with sledge hammers broke into his printing office and smashed one of his presses. Forbes’ arrival with a smoking gun drove them off. His ire fully roused now, the following morning Forbes mailed copies of the paper, of which only a few had been left unburned, to the governor of the territory, to the United States Marshal and to newspapers in El Paso, Santa Fe and other western towns.

However, following the Fox raid no word came from Blaine. The rumor spread that he was wounded. The death of Scantlin was attributed to Blaine until Rip Coker drifted into town.

He came riding in just before closing time at the Verde Saloon. He pushed through the doors and walked to the bar. His face was drawn, his eyes sparking and grim. He tossed off a drink and turned to face the half-dozen men in the room. “Folks say Utah killed Pete Scantlin. It wasn’t Utah. It was me. Utah can stand for his own killin’s, I stand for mine. He was huntin’ me down like a varmint, so I rode out an’ gave him his chance. He lost.”

“You better ride, Rip. Clell’s huntin’ you.”

“Huntin’ me? Where is he?”

“In his room over at the hotel,” somebody said. “But you…you better—” The speaker’s voice broke sharply off for Clell Miller stood in the doorway.

Miller’s face had sharpened and hardened. His eyes were ugly and it was obvious that he had been drinking—not enough to make him unsteady, but more than enough to arouse all his latent viciousness.

“Huntin’ me, Rip?” Clell stepped in and let the door close behind him. “I saw you ride in. Thought I’d come down.”

“Sure, I’m huntin’ you.” Rip Coker stepped away from the bar. His thin, hard-boned face was drawn and fine from the hard riding and short rations, but his smile was reckless and eager. “You want it now?”

“Why not?” Clell went for his gun as he spoke and it came up, incredibly fast, faster than that of Rip Coker. His first shot struck Rip right over the belt buckle and Rip took an involuntary step back. Clell fired again and missed, but Rip steadied his hand before he fired. His shot spun Miller around. Miller dropped to one knee and fired from the floor. His second shot hit Rip, and then Rip brought his gun down and shot twice, both bullets hitting Clell in the head. Clell fell over, slammed back by the force of the bullets.

Rip staggered, his face pale. He started, staggering for the door. As he stepped out, a voice from across the street called out. “We get five hundred for you Rip!” And then a half-dozen guns went off. Slammed back into the wall by the force of the bullets, Rip brought up his own gun. His knees wavered, but he stiffened them. He was mortally wounded, but he straightened his knees and fired. A man staggered and went down, and Rip fired again. Bullets struck him, but he kept feeding shells into his gun.

Shot to doll rags, he would not go down. He fired again and then again. Somebody up the street yelled and then another ragged volley crashed into the blond fighter. He fired again as he fell, and one of the killers rose on his toes and fell headlong.

Forbes rushed from the hotel, Mary Blake and Angie following him. Ben Otten and others began to crowd around. Rink Witter pushed through the crowd. “Back off,” he snarled. “If this varmint ain’t dead, he soon will be!”

Forbes looked at him, his face drawn in hard lines in the light from the Verde window. “Leave him alone, you murderer!” he said. “You’ve done enough!”

Rink Witter’s eyes glittered and he looked down. The doctor had come up and was kneeling over Coker. Coker’s eyes fluttered and he looked up at Witter. Suddenly, the dying man chuckled. “Wait! Wait!” he whispered hoarsely. “You’re dead, Rink! Wait’ll Blaine hears of this! He’ll hang up your scalp!”

“Shut up!” Witter snarled.

Rip grinned weakly. “Not—not bad,” he whispered, “I got Clell. Nev—figured—I’d—I’d beat him.”

The bartender, an admirer of gameness in any man, leaned over. “You can go happy, son,” he said. “You got two more to take along.”

Rip put a feeble hand on the doctor’s arm. “You—wastin’ time, sawbones.” He blinked slowly. “Clell an’ two more! Hell, I don’t reckon Utah could of done much better!”

The doctor straightened slowly and looked over at Forbes. “I can’t understand it,” he whispered. “He’s shot to ribbons. He should be dead.”

Angie moved in. “Carry him to my room, Doc. He’s got nerve enough for two men. Maybe he’ll come through.”

By mid-morning the story was all over the valley. Rip Coker had shot it out with Clell Miller and killed him. Staggering from the saloon, badly wounded, he had been ambushed by six gunmen, had killed two of them before going down under a hail of bullets. Although shot eleven times, he was still alive!

“He might make it,” Forbes told Angie. “Cole Younger was shot eleven times in the fighting during and after the Northfield raid, and he lived.”