Radigan (1958) (18 page)

The big man interrupted angrily. "I said no such thing. I meant-"

"Trying to weasel out of it," Radigan said. "Well, fill a glass and I'll see if I like it."

The big man stared at him for an instant, then went behind the bar and poured a drink.

Nobody else moved. "The offer stands," Radigan invited.

Nobody moved.

"See. Nobody likes it."

He tasted it. For an instant he thought his throat was on fire, then he backed off and looked at the glass. "A barrel of branch water, two plugs of tobacco, a bar of soap to give it a bead, and a couple of ounces of strychnine, and maybe three gallons of alcohol. Color the whole thing with greasewood, and that's about the formula.

No wonder nobody drinks it."

He tasted it again. "Started by selling to the Utes, I'll bet. No wonder they went on the warpath so much."

"You're breedin' trouble," the big man warned.

"No I'm not, and I don't want trouble. Now you haul out that jug from under the bar and I'll have a decent drink."

The bartender muttered gloomily and reached under the bar. Immediately the others got up and walked over to join Radigan.

When the glasses were set up and the drinks poured, Radigan said, "I'm Radigan of the R-Bar outfit. You should know the brand. You've eaten R-Bar beef, time to time."

A round-faced man with a sour face looked at the whisky in his glass, then tossed off half of it. "You accusin' us of rustlin'?" "Stating a fact," Radigan said. "And I'm not the man to begrudge a beef now and again, although why you waste time on my little herd when there's nearly three thousand head in the country that don't belong there."

"You invitin' us?"

"Telling you. What you do is your own affair, only they're no friends of mine. Fact is, I'm right in the middle of a first-class cow war. "

The door opened behind them and in a gust of cold wind a slender blond man came in. He was tall, wiry, and his face was narrow with straight brows above long, deep-set eyes. He wore a short sheepskin coat that gave his gun hand plenty of room and a round beaver cap that fitted his narrow skull tightly.

At the same moment there was a clatter of horses' hoofs in the outer street, and Radigan glanced out the window. In the narrow shaft of light he saw Harvey Thorpe, and the men around him were Thorpe's men.

Radigan tossed off his drink and shrugged into his coat. The newcomer was watching him. "I don't know you," he was saying. "I'm Swiss Jack."

Radigan grinned at him. "My name is Will Haftowate. And that's what you'll have to do."

"What?" Swiss Jack looked inquiringly.

"You'll have to wait," Radigan said. "I spoke of a cattle war: that's it, out front."

Swiss Jack glanced over his shoulder. The group of riders were dismounting outside.

"That's no cattle war. That's Bob Harvey, and if he wants to see you, I'm going to keep you for him."

"Let him alone." The big bartender had leaned across the bar. "We don't hold anybody for anybody here."

"Now, see here-"

The back door closed softly, and Swiss Jack turned sharply around. Radigan was gone.

Chapter
Six.

The wind blew cold off the mountain as Radigan paused on the icy back step, listening for sounds within. He could hear the murmur of voices but could distinguish no words, and he waited only until he heard the front door open and then he walked swiftly along the well-beaten path to the outhouse and went past it to the barn.

He paused there, his shadow merging with the heavier shadow alongside the barn wall, and he calculated swiftly. There were only a few buildings in town and all would be searched at once, therefore shelter within any of them was out of the question.

The arrival of Thorpe and his riders was a puzzle, for it was impossible they could have known of his coming here. They might be looking for Pike and Cade, but that was doubtful as thus far they had no argument with them. Hence it was logical to assume they had come here for some other reason and their arrival at this time was purely coincidental. But why would they come here?

And Thorpe had at least a dozen riders with him, and perhaps even more.

Swiss Jack had called him Bob Harvey. Was that a mistake? Or another name Thorpe had used? Radigan recalled his own first impression, that Thorpe was a tough man, one who had been known somewhere before this. But Bob Harvey? He turned the name over in his mind, but it meant nothing to him.

No use standing where he was. He went around the corner of the barn, his feet crunching on the frozen snow under the eaves. Back of the barn, and perhaps thirty yards off was the creek bed. He started for it, moving swiftly, not wanting to be caught outlined against the snow, and when he reached the blackness he stopped to catch his breath and to listen.

The back door had slammed. Was the search starting? If there was a search he was sure it would be Swiss Jack who started it: the others, whatever else they might be, were men who kept their own counsel.

He moved back into the brush along the creek, then went down along the icy rocks.

His Winchester was with his saddle and gear back in the livery stable, but to go for it now was fatal.

He saw men fanning out from the barn, going from building to building. Obviously, the idea that he might have remained outside on such a cold night had not occurred to them, but it would soon come to mind. Yet only a few minutes had passed when he heard a call. It was Thorpe's voice. "All right! No time for that! Come on in! We'll take care of him on the way back!" The way back from where?

He saw them straggle back and mount up, and then they rode out of town in a tight cavalcade as if bunching against the cold.

If men traveled on such a night there, haste was imperative and they must have far to go.

Nobody commented when he came back into the saloon and this time the bartender reached under the bar for the good jug and poured a drink. "On the house," he said.

"Cold out there," Radigan commented.

"Especially," it was Swiss Jack, "if you have cold feet to begin."

Radigan took his drink and his time. Then he turned slowly around and looked at Swiss Jack. He looked at him for a full minute while the room was silent. The fire crackled and inside the pot-bellied stove a stick fell. A man shifted his feet and poured a glass full and the trickling of the whisky could be heard plainly in the room.

"Yes," Radigan said quietly, "I had cold feet from a long ride, and cold hands, and there were a few more outside than I was in any mood to tackle. There must have been a dozen of them."

"So?" Swiss Jack was sitting back in his chair, smiling. "There's only one of you."

Swiss Jack was surprised. He had expected everything but that and for an instant it caught him unawares, and also, he instantly realized, he was in no position to draw a gun and any slightest move on his part could be construed as a move to draw. If the big man at the bar was any hand at all with a gun, then Swiss Jack himself was as good as dead. And he was not ready to die.

For a long moment he sat very still, wondering if he dared move from his slouched position without feeling the tear of hot lead in his guts.

Radigan knew exactly how Swiss Jack was feeling and he was in no hurry to let him off the hook. "I said just any time," he said, "but if you reach for a gun, I'll kill you."

Swiss Jack's mouth was dry and he could feel his pulse throbbing heavily. He dearly wanted to move, his position had become cramped, but he was quite sure now that the big man was not fooling.

Radigan watched him, his eyes cold but his lips smiling slightly. He did not want to kill this man, yet he knew that if it became necessary he was not going to lose any time doing it or any sleep afterwards. He did not want to brag but he knew that sometimes even a dangerous man will hesitate before tackling an equally dangerous one.

"You called that man Bob Harvey. I don't know the name." "Your hard luck."

"Not mine. He's yellow enough to hire his killing."

Swiss Jack laughed. "Bob Harvey? You've the wrong man. Bob can kill his own cats."

"He hired Vin Cable to kill me."

He saw the sudden awareness in Swiss Jack's eyes and knew now that whatever else Swiss Jack might do he was not going to begin a fight under any misapprehensions.

"You're Radigan?" There was a slight note of incredulity. "I'm Radigan."

By now he knew the story of the killing of Vin Cable would be known wherever Western men gathered, for such stories were quickly passed on from campfire to card table across the country. And especially were such stories the gossip of such places as this, where they were meat and drink to the lonely man who lived by the gun.

The door opened then and three men came into the room. The first was a tall, square-shouldered man with auburn mustaches and auburn hair that touched his shoulders. The second was shorter, a man with a square face and a square build who carried himself very erect, a man whose features were swarthy and handsome in a hard-bitten way. The third was even taller, very narrow across his rounded shoulders and with a small head atop a long neck, and a great beak of a nose.

Radigan said, "Howdy, boys." He did not remove his eyes from Swiss Jack. "I'm selling tickets for a ball. You boys want to choose your partners?"

"If it's your fight, Tom," Loren Pike had grasped the situa
tion
at once, "we're already tuning our fiddles."

Charlie Cade and Adam Stark walked around Radigan to the bar and leaned their backs against it, looking at Swiss Jack. "You really call this a fight?" Pike asked gently, indicating Swiss Jack.

"This is the soup. The main course is being served when Harvey Thorpe or Bob Harvey or whatever he calls himself comes back down the trail."

Swiss Jack was getting stiff. He knew he was going to try moving soon, and he was glad there was only one man to reckon with for the men who stood before him were all very tough men.

Radigan walked slowly over to the table. "Your hands aren't tied, Jack," he said conversationally, "and I think you said something about holding me for Harvey. You want to make a start?"

Swiss Jack was looking up, his eyes on Radigan's chest. If he did draw, would his gun clear the table? Could he jerk free of the table and get his gun up before he died?

"Seems to me you're in a bind," Radigan said. "Just get up out of the chair. You'll get an even break. Just get up mighty easy and don't make any sudden moves."

Swiss Jack could not make himself believe it. He was going to have his chance. Slowly, he eased sideways out of his chair and straightened up and his eyes lifted to Radigan's and Radigan hit him.

Swiss Jack never saw the blow coming. He was not set to take a punch and he was not yet on balance. The blow caught him alongside the jaw and lights exploded in his skull and the next instant he was seated on the floor and his skull was ringing.

There was a smoky taste in his mouth and he started to get up but a big hand caught him by the scruff of the neck and slammed him back into the wall with such violence that a bottle on the bar tipped over. His skull hit the wall with a vicious rap and his eyes tried to focus and he tried to reach for a gun.

He had never been in a fist fight in his life. Guns were a gentleman's weapon, and he had always relied on a gun. A hard fist caught him in the mouth and he tasted blood. He came off the wall swinging, but a wicked blow in his belly took his wind and doubled him up for the lifting knee that broke his nose.

"Swiss Jack," Radigan spoke without anger, "I came in here a stranger, minding my own affairs, and you decided to take a hand.

"Now," Radigan continued, "I'd suggest you settle down for the winter here, or you ride out to the north. But don't come south of here because if I see you south of Loma Coyote and west of Santa Fe I'll take it to mean you're looking for me."

He turned and walked to the bar. "I need some top hands," he said to Loren, "who aren't gun-shy."

Gretchen spent the first day cleaning up the cave, checking the trail regularly, and during that first day she cooked not at all, only making coffee to go with the jerked beef and the cans of tomatoes she opened. She was, she admitted to herself, frightened.

On the second day the wind was blowing hard into the west, and so away from the ranch, and on that day she got out some dried apples and baked three apple pies. She had already decided on a party for them when they returned, and she had begun preparing.

What she did not know was that Bitner, scouting wide for the R-Bar cows, had swung even farther west than usual on what was to be the last venture in that direction before they started sweeping the mountains to the east of Vache Creek. And returning from that ride he caught a whiff of fresh baking.

It was impossible, he knew it was impossible, yet he knew that smell, and his stomach growled in response. He drew up and sat his horse in the face of the wind, trying to get another whiff of it, but none came. Just as he was deciding it was all imagination and wishful thinking, it came again.

For an hour he cut back and forth across the wind, trying to trace that vagrant aroma, but without success, although he did catch the scent several times, and by that time he was closer to the ranch by several miles.