Текст книги "Desert Death-Song: A Collection of Western Stories"

Автор книги: Louis L'Amour

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

When awareness moved over him, he knew suddenly that he was in a cave or mine tunnel. Turning his head slightly, he looked around. He was lying on a crude pallet on a sandy cave floor. Some twenty feet away he could see a long narrow shaft of light. Nearby his guns hung from a peg in the cave wall, and his rifle leaned against the wall.

Suddenly the narrow rift of light was blotted out, and he heard someone crawling into the cave. The man came up and threw down an armful of fire wood, then lighted a lantern. He came over.

“Come out of it, huh? Man, I thought yuh never would!” The man was lean and old, with twinkling blue eyes and almost white hair. He was long and tall. Ward noted the foot gear suddenly. This was the man they had trailed up the canyon! “Who are you?” he demanded.

The man smiled. “Charlie Quayle’s the name. Used to ride for Chait, over the Newtons.”

“Yuh’re the hombre we trailed up the canyon a few days back. Yestiddy, I mean.”

Quayle laughed. “Right the first time! Yuh been lyin’ here all of two weeks, nearer dead than alive. Delirious, most of the time. Figgered yuh never would come out of it.”

“Two weeks!” Ward McQueen struggled to sit up, then sank back. “Yuh mean I’ve been here two weeks? Why, they’ll figger I’m dead back at the ranch! Why’d yuh bring me here? Who shot me?”

“Hold on!” Quayle chuckled. “Give me time an’ I’ll answer all the questions I can. First place, two of them rustlin’ hands of Jim Yount’s packed yuh to the canyon and dropped yuh into a wash. They kicked sand over yuh and then dropped on some brush. But they wasn’t no hands to work, so they left off and went away.

“I was right curious as to who yuh was, and dug into that pile. Then I found yuh was alive. Don’t reckon they knowed it. I packed yuh in here, and mister, yuh’re the heaviest durned man I ever did pack! And me with a game leg!”

“Was yuh trailin’ ’em when they shot me?”

“No. I was scoutin’ the layout around the ranch, figgerin’ to steal me some coffee, when I heard the shot. Then I seen them packin’ yuh away, so I follered.” Quayle lighted his pipe. “There’s been some changes,” he went on. “Yore friend Sartain has been fired. So have Fox an’ the baldheaded gent. Tennessee had a run-in with the redhead, that one they call Lund, and Lund killed him. Outdrawed him in a picked fight. Yount, he’s real friendly with Miss Kermitt, and he’s runnin’ the ranch. One or more of them tough gun hands around all the time.”

Ward lay on his back staring up at the rocky roof of the cave. Kim Sartain fired! It didn’t seem reasonable. Why, Kim had been with Ruth Kermitt longer than any of them! He had been with her when she and her brother had first come over the trail from Wyoming. He had helped her when she bought this ranch, had known her brother, had been with her even before the trouble at Pilot Range when Ward had first joined them. And now he was fired, run off the place!

And Tennessee killed!

What sort of a girl was Ruth Kermitt to fire her oldest hands and take on a bunch of gunslick rustlers led by a crooked gambler?

“Yuh got a hard head,” Quayle said suddenly, “or yuh’d be dead right now. The bullet hit right over the eye, but she skidded around yore skull under the skin. Laid yore scalp right open. Sort of concussion, too. And yuh lost a sight of blood.”

“I’ve got to get out of here!” Ward said suddenly. “I’ve got to see Ruth Kermitt!”

“Yuh better sit tight an’ get well,” Quayle said drily. “She’s right busy with that Yount hombre. Rides with him all over the range. Holdin’ hands more’n half the time. Everybody’s seen ’em! If she fired the rest of her boys, she shore wouldn’t want no foreman back!”

McQueen looked at Quayle. “Say! Where do you fit into this deal?”

Charlie Quayle shrugged. “I rode for Chait, like I told yuh. Yount rooked him out of his ranch, but Chait was glad to get shet of it. But when Yount found out what a heap of sand he got he was some sore. Me, I’d save me nigh on a year’s wages and was fixin’ to set up for myself. One of them rannies of Yount’s saw the money, and they trailed me down. Said it was ranch money. We had us a fight, and they winged me. I got away and holed up in this here canyon.”

CHAPTER THREE: Stacked Deck

All day McQueen rested in the cave. After dark, Quayle left the cave. He was gone for hours, but when he returned, he was eager to talk.

“That Yount,” he said, “takin’ over the country! He went into Mannerhouse last night lookin’ for Gelvin, but he’d gone off with some stranger friend of his’n. This Yount had some words with Dave Cormack, and killed him. They do say this here. Yount is fast as greased lightnin’ with a gun!

“Then Red Lund and Pete Dodson pistol-whipped Logan Keane. Yount, he told ’em he was ramroddin’ the Tumblin’ K, and was goin’ to marry Ruth Kermitt, and he was sick of the talk goin’ around about him and his men. They’ve got that town treed, believe you me!”

Ruth to marry Jim Yount! Ward McQueen felt a sudden emptiness inside him. He knew then that he was in love with Ruth. In fact, as he thought of it, he had been in love with her for a long time. And now she was to marry Yount! A crooked gambler and ramrod of a gunslick gang of outlaws!

It didn’t seem possible. Lying there on the pallet, he shook his head as if to clear it of the whole idea.

“See anything of Sartain?” he demanded.

“No,” Quayle admitted, “but hear tell he drifted over into the Newtons with Fox and that Baldy hombre.”

The next day, Ward was up with daybreak. He rolled out of the blankets. His head still ached, but he felt better. His long period of illness had at least given him time to rest, and his strength was enough to help him recuperate rapidly. He oiled his guns and reloaded them. Quayle eyed his preparations thoughtfully, and said nothing until McQueen began to pull on his boots.

“Better wait till sundown if yuh’re goin’ out huntin’ trouble,’ he said. “I got yuh a hoss. Got him hid down the canyon in the brush.”

“A hoss?” Ward’s eyes glinted. “Good for you, old-timer! I’m goin’ up to have a look-see at the ranch. This deal don’t figger right to me.”

“Nor me.” Quayle knocked out his pipe. “I seen that gal’s face today. They rid past me as I lay in the brush. She shore didn’t look happy like she was with no man she loved. Mebbe she ain’t willin’.”

“That’s a thought.” Ward nodded. “Well, tonight I ride.”

“We ride!” Quayle insisted. “I don’t like gettin’ shot up no better than you-all. I’m in this fight, too.”

“Thanks,” McQueen said grimly. “I can use help, but what yuh might do is try to trail down Kim Sartain and the others. Get ’em back here for a showdown.”

Where Quayle had picked up the little buckskin McQueen did not know or care. He needed a horse desperately, and the buckskin was a horse. Whatever Yount’s game was he had been fast and thorough. He had moved in on the Tumbling K, had had Ward McQueen drygulched, had had Miss Kermitt fire her old hands, and then, riding into Mannerhouse, had quieted all outward opposition by killing one man and beating another.

Tennessee, too, had been killed. Jim Yount had shown himself to be fast, ruthless, and quick of decision. And as he acted with the real or apparent consent of Ruth Kermitt, there was nothing to be done by any of the townspeople in the little village of Mannerhouse.

Probably none were inclined to do anything. There was no personal gain for anyone in bucking the killers Yount had around him. Obviously, the gambler was in complete control of the situation. He had erred in only two things—in failing to track down and kill Charlie Quayle and in thinking McQueen was dead, instead of making certain of it.

The buckskin was a quick-stepping little horse with a liking for the trail. Ward headed out toward the Tumbling K. Quayle had left earlier in the day, starting back into the Newtons to hunt for Kim. Baldy and Bud were good cowhands, but the slim, darkfaced youngster, Kim Sartain, was one of the fastest gunhands Ward had ever seen, and he had a continual drive toward trouble. Never beginning any fight, he loved a battle.

“With him,” Ward told the buckskin, “I’d tackle an army!”

He left the buckskin in a clump of willows near the stream, then crossed it on stepping stones, and worked his way through the greasewood toward the Tumbling K ranch house.

He had no plan of action. He had nothing on which to base such a plan. If he could find Ruth and talk to her, or if he could figure out something of the plan on which Yount was operating, that would be a beginning.

The windows shone bright as he neared the house. For a long time he lay behind a clump of greasewood and studied the situation. An error now would be fatal. Quick and sudden death would be all that awaited him.

There would be someone around, he was sure. Yount had no reason to expect trouble, for he seemed to have quieted all opposition with neatness and dispatch. Yet the gambler was a careful man.

A cigarette gleamed suddenly from the steps of the bunk-house. Somebody was seated there, on guard or just having a smoke.

Ward worked to the left until the house was between them, then he got up and moved swiftly to the wall of the house. He eased up to the window. It was a warm night, and the window was open at the bottom.

Jim Yount was playing solitaire at the dining room table. Red Lund was oiling a pistol. Packer was leaning his elbows on the table watching Yount’s cards and smoking.

“I always wanted a ranch,” Yount was saying, “and this is it. No use gallivantin’ around the country when a man can hole up and live in style. I’d of had it over the Newtons if that durned sand bed I got from Chait had been any good. Then I seen this place—it was too good to be true.

“Yuh shore worked fast,” Packer agreed. “And it was plumb lucky that Hollier and me got that McQueen. I hear tell he was a plumb salty hombre.”

Yount shrugged. “Mebbe. All sorts of stories get started. He might have been fast with a gun, but he didn’t have brains. It would take brains to win out.” He glanced up at Lund. “Look,” he said. “Logan Keane has that spread south of Hosstail Creek. Nice piece of land, thousands of acres with good water, runnin’ right up to Mannerhouse. Keane’s all scared now. Once this girl and me are married so the title to this place is cinched, we’ll go to work on Keane. We’ll rustle his stock, run off his hands, and force him to sell. I reckon we can do the whole job in a month, at the outside.” Red glanced up from his pistol.

“You get the ranches,” he said. “Where do I come in?”

Yount smiled. “You don’t want a ranch,” he said, “I do. Well, I happen to know where Ruth Kermitt’s got her money cached. There’s ten thousand in the lot. You boys”—for a moment his eyes held those of Red Lund—“can split that up among yuh. I reckon yuh can work out some way of dividin’ it even up!”

Lund’s eyes glinted with understanding. Watching, McQueen glanced quickly at Packer, but the big horse thief showed no sign of having seen the exchange of glances. Ward could see, only too plainly, how the money would be divided. It would be a split made by Red Lund’s six-guns. The others got lead, he got the cash.

It had the added advantage to Jim Yount of having only one actual witness to his own treachery.

Crouched in the darkness below the window, Ward McQueen calculated his chances. Jim Yount was reputed to be a fast man with a gun. Red Lund had proved himself so. Packer would be good, even if not the flash artist the other two were. Three to one in this case made odds much too long. And at the bunkhouse were Hollier and Pete Dodson, neither one a man to trifle with.

A clatter of horses hoofs sounded suddenly on the hard-packed trail from town, and a horseman showed briefly in the light from the door. Ward McQueen heard Hollier hail the rider, and could hear the mumble of voices. Then the door opened. Watching from a corner window, Ward saw the rider ushered into the room. It was the lean stranger who had played poker with Gelvin and Keane.

“You Jim Yount?” he asked. “They call me Rip. Just rode out here to say they got a express package at the station for Miss Kermitt. She can drop in and pick it up tomorrow if she likes.”

Yount stared at him. “Express package? Why didn’t yuh bring it out?”

The young rider shrugged. “Wouldn’t let me. Seems like it’s money. A package of dinero as payment on some property of hers back in Wyomin’. She’s got to sign for it herself. They won’t let nobody else have it.”

Yount stared at him. “Money, is it? Well, Miss Kermitt’s gone to sleep, but I’ll tell her!”

The rider turned and went out and in a few minutes Ward heard his horse on the road.

“More dinero?” Packer grinned. “Not bad, Boss! She can pick it up for us, and well split it, huh?”

Red Lund was staring at his pistol. “I don’t like it!” he said suddenly. “Looks like a chance to get us off the ranch and the girl into town!”

Yount shrugged. “So if they do? Who in town will tackle us?” He leaned forward, smiling. “I think it’s probably the truth. But even if it ain’t, why worry? We’ll send Packer in ahead to look the ground over. If there’s any strangers, he can warn us. No, I think it’s all right. We’ll go in tomorrow!”

An hour later, and far back on a brush-covered hillside, Ward McQueen bedded down for the night. From where he lay he could see any party that left the ranch. One thing he knew. Tomorrow was the pay-off. Ruth Kermitt would not be returning to that ranch.

With daylight he was awake. He smoked his breakfast, trying to work the chill from his bones. It had been a damp, uncomfortable night. The sunshine caught light from the ranch-house windows and slow smoke lifted from the kitchen. Hollier walked out and began roping horses. He saddled his own, Ruth Kermitt’s brown mare, and the big gray horse that belonged to Jim Yount.

Smoking his second cigarette, Ward McQueen tried to foresee what would happen. There were only nine buildings on the town’s main street, scarcely more than twenty houses scattered around them.

The express and stage office was next to the saloon. Gelvin’s store was across the street.

Where did this young rider stand? The man who called himself “Rip?” He seemed to be merely a tramp rider, but he had known of Ward McQueen’s shootout in Maravillas Canyon. Not many knew of that. Nor did Rip look like the casual drifter he was supposed to be. His eyes were too keen, too sharp. If he had baited a trap with money he had used the only bait to which these men would rise. But what was he hoping to accomplish?

There were no men in Mannerhouse who would draw a gun against Jim Yount and Red Lund.

Gelvin would, if he was there. But Gelvin had only courage, and no six-gun skill, and the one needed the backing of the other.

CHAPTER FOUR: Six-Gun Return

It was an hour after daylight when Packer mounted his paint gelding and started off for town. Ward watched him go, his eyes narrow. He had resolved upon his own course of action. It was no elaborate plan. He was going to slip into town and at the right moment he was going to kill Jim Yount, and if possible, Red Lund.

The cigarette tasted bitter, suddenly. Ward McQueen was no fool. He knew what tackling that bunch meant. Even if he got the two, he would go down himself. There was no alternative. Yet if he succeeded and Kim Sartain came back, Kim might ride in and drive the others off Ruth’s ranch. The girl would have her own back.

Thoughtfully, he saddled the buckskin. As always the little horse was eager to go. He checked his six-guns again. Then, his lips thin, he swung into the saddle and started working his way down through the greasewood and mesquite to the valley floor.

He had gone but a few hundred yards when he saw Jim Yount and the girl ride away from the ranch. A few feet behind them was Red Lund.

Pete Dodson, mounted on a sorrel horse, had taken the southerly trail and was skirting the town to approach from the other direction. Ward saw this, too, and his eyes were grim. Jim Yount was taking no chances. . . .

The dusty street of Mannerhouse was warm in the bright morning sun. On the steps of the Express office, Rip was sunning himself. Abel, behind the bar of his saloon looked nervously at the door. He was on edge and aware, aware as is a wild animal when a strange creature nears his lair. Trouble was in the wind. He wanted no part of it.

Gelvin’s store was still closed. That was unusual for this time of the day. Abel glanced at Rip, and his brow puckered. Rip was wearing tied-down guns this morning.

Abel put the glass down and glanced at Packer who was sitting over a drink. Suddenly, Packer downed the drink and got up. He walked carefully to the door and glanced up and down the street. All was quiet. A man came out of the post office and walked down to the barber shop. The sound of the door closing was the only noise. Packer stared at Rip, noting the guns.

He saw Pete Dodson stop his horse behind Gelvin’s store, and his eyes sharpened. Pete was carrying a rifle.

Packer turned suddenly, staring at Abel.

“Give me that scattergun yuh got under the bar!”

“Huh?” Abel’s face paled. “I ain’t got—” he started to reply, but Packer cut him short.

“Don’t give me that,” Packer snarled. “I want that gun!”

When Abel put it on the bar, his tongue wetting dry lips, Packer picked it up with satisfaction. Then he walked back to the window and put the gun beside it. Carefully he eased the window up about three inches. His position covered Rip’s side and back.

Jim Yount rode up the street with Ruth Kermitt beside him. Her face was pale and strained. Her eyes seemed unusually large. Red Lund trailed a few yards behind and reined in his horse across the street. Then he swung down.

From the bar, Abel could see it all. Jim Yount and the girl were approaching Rip from the west. North and west was Red Lund. Due north, in the shadow of Gelvin’s store, was Pete Dodson. In the saloon, southeast of the express office porch was Packer. Rip was boxed. Signed and sealed. All but delivered.

Jim Keane, Logan’s much older brother, was express agent. He saw Jim Yount come, and his face paled as he glimpsed Red Lund across the street.

Rip got up lazily and smiled as Ruth Kermitt came up the steps with Jim Yount.

“Come for yore package, Miss Kermitt?” he asked politely. “While yuh’re here, yuh might answer some questions.”

“By whose authority?” Yount demanded sharply.

Ward McQueen, crouched behind the saloon, heard the answer clearly.

“The State of Texas, Yount,” Rip replied, “I’m a Ranger!”

Jim Yount laughed shortly. “This ain’t Texas, and she answers no questions!”

McQueen jumped inside his skin. A shotgun barrel was easing over the window sill of the saloon! Wheeling, he slipped to the back door. There was no reason now to be quiet. In fact, noise would help. He jerked open the door and jumped inside.

Parker, intent on the tableau on the porch, and getting Rip lined up with the shotgun, heard the door slam open. Startled, he spun on the balls of his feet. Ward McQueen stood just inside the door, and Packer’s face blanched. Somehow his hand was dropping for a gun, but even as his hand moved, he knew it was hopeless.

Ward McQueen palmed his six-gun with a gesture deadly as a striking snake. The shot sounded flat and dead in the empty room.

Packer’s gun slid from helpless fingers and he pitched forward on his face.

Outside, all perdition broke loose. Ruth Kermitt, aware of the danger Rip was in, had been tense and waiting. She knew she could not help him, only handicap, so when that shot sounded suddenly from the saloon, she dropped flat on the porch and rolled off into the dust by the steps.

Rip went for his gun, stepping quickly to the left as he did, trying to get Yount between him and Red Lund. Their guns all began barking at once, and even as the first shot sounded, Ward McQueen plunged through the saloon doors and caught himself with one of the posts on the edge of the saloon walk. He fired at Lund, and a bullet from Pete Dodson’s rifle clipped slivers from the post, spitting them into his face.

Ward hit the dust on both feet and started toward Lund, both guns ready.

Red had wheeled away from Rip, his face snarling, and Ward held his fire, stepping quickly and carefully. The steps carried him forward, and Pete Dodson had to get out from the side of the building to get him in his sights again.

Red fired and fired again. Ward felt something hit him a savage blow and his knee buckled under him. He fired from one knee, taking his time and lining the sights as in a shooting contest. Red staggered back and sat down hard, then rolled over and got up.

Ward fired again, then again. Red Lund got up again and, his face bloody, started toward McQueen. There was firing from the stage station porch and firing from behind Gelvin’s store, but through the dust and smoke, Ward McQueen saw Red Lund go down again. He forced himself up and turned his head, stiffly, seeking Jim Yount.

The frock-coated gambler was clinging to his saddle-horn with his left hand, still gripping a gun in his right. Rip was down on the steps, crawling toward his own gun which had been knocked from his fingers. Yount, seemingly injured, was trying to get up a gun to kill Rip.

Bracing himself in a teetering, rolling street, Ward McQueen lifted his gun, his eyes intent on Yount. A rifle barked somewhere behind him or off to his right, and he felt a bullet whiff by his face. He blinked his eyes, steadied the gun, and fired.

Yount’s gray horse lunged, breaking the bridle that tied it to the hitchrail. There was a thunder of hoofs down the street, and Ward saw a dark, flashing figure crouching low over a flame-red horse come sweeping into the street. He clung low like an Indian, and as he rode his six-gun was blazing from under the horse’s neck. He seemed to be shooting at something off to the right.

Yount was down in the dust and trying to get up. Suddenly, Ward saw that the gambler had a knife and was crawling toward the girl who was crouched against the steps where she had dropped to clear the field for Rip. Yount’s knife was gripped with the blade up in his right hand, and his face twisted viciously as he edged toward the girl.

McQueen knew he couldn’t walk that far. He forced his six-gun up. He pulled the trigger, and it clicked on an empty chamber.

Hazily he lifted his left hand. He lifted it waist high, staring at Yount. He rarely shot a gun with his left hand and was praying as he squeezed off the shot.

Jim Yount contracted himself suddenly in an agonized jerk and his face twisted more. McQueen squeezed the trigger again and Yount rolled over on his back. Both shots had hit him in the left side.

McQueen remembered Abel rushing from the saloon, and then Gelvin from his store. Ruth was running toward him, and for a moment, he blacked out.

When he could see again, Ruth was bending over him, his head cradled in her arms. Kim Sartain was standing by the porch, the red horse behind him.

McQueen tried to sit up. “What—happened?” he gasped.

Kim shrugged. “Clean sweep, looks like.” He started building a smoke. “Charlie Quayle got to us, and we headed for the ranch. That Hollier hombre was there, and we smoked him out. He got Charlie. First shot. Then Bud Fox got him. I rode on into town while they were shakin’ the place down to see if there was any more there. When I come in, yuh had the job about done, only for Pete Dodson. Gelvin shot at him from behind the store, and that helped keep him busy. He missed one shot at you as I come up, and I rode up on him, got a couple of bullets into this before I rode him down. He’s dead.”

“Red Lund?”

“Got four bullets in him. Ready for Boot Hill. Yount’s alive and cussin’, but he won’t be long. He got two bullets into Rip, and Rip hit him once. You got him twice in the side, and burned him once. Packer’s dead.” Kim lighted his smoke. “Ward,” he said, “I been thinkin’ about the south range. Mebbe we should round up some cows and put ’em north of the creek for a while. Save that south grass.”

“Good idea,” Ward said. “If I’m still foreman.” He looked up at Ruth.

“You always were,” she said. “They told me you’d packed up and quit me. Then Yount made me fire Kim and the boys.”

Rip hobbled toward them, leaning on Gelvin’s shoulder.

“My name’s Coker, Ward. I was trailin’ Lund. Couldn’t figger no way to bust up Yount’s show unless I could get the straight of it from Miss Kermitt, so I faked that package to get ’em into town. I didn’t figger them to gang up on me like they done.”

Baldy Jackson and Bud Fox were loping toward them. When they reined in, Bud glanced at Ruth, then at Ward.

“Yuh know that old mossy horn, Ward? Found him while ridin’ in this mornin’! He’s got about thirty head wit him, back in the purtiest little valley yuh ever saw! Reckon he’s holed up there to stay!”

Ward looked up at Ruth, then grinned at Bud.

“I reckon I am, too!” he said. “I reckon he’s like me. So used to this range he wouldn’t be noways happy any place else!”

“Why even think of anywhere else?” Ruth asked softly. “I want you to stay, Ward. Always! I think,” she added, “you’d better take full charge after this!”

“Of everything?”

“Everything!” she said.