The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 2 (38 page)

“Hold it, Bowdrie!” a voice called. “Turn Starr loose an' you can ride off!”

It was the moment he wanted, for they would be listening for his reply and not poised to shoot. With a lunge he was through the door and inside the adobe house. Two bullets struck the doorjamb as he went through.

“You boys come in with your hands up,” he called, “and I'll see you get a fair trial!”

“You're a fool!” somebody grumbled. “You haven't a chance. We'll burn you out!”

“Anytime you're ready!”

The fire was blazing brightly and to approach the cabin they must make a frontal attack. He reached around the doorpost and got his Winchester.

In the corner of the adobe was a huge pile of sticks, part of it a pack rat's nest, part of it wood for the fireplace, left by nameless travelers. Taking up one of the sticks, he tossed it into the fire. As the fire blazed up, he detected a slight movement from Curly Starr.

“Curly,” he spoke loud enough for the outlaw to hear, “don't make any sudden moves. If you try to escape, I'll kill you. I don't want to, so don't push your luck.”

He waited, and all was still. Nobody wanted to rush him as long as the fire was burning brightly. He threw another stick into the fire. In the next half-hour three of the five sticks he threw landed in the fire. Yet it was a long time until morning.

Starr had witnessed the brief battle with the Indians and had no idea of taking the risk. He reached for the coffeepot, snared it and a cup, and calmly filled the cup.

“Thanks, Bowdrie. All the comforts of home!”

“I should have hit you harder,” Chick replied cheerfully. “You've a thick skull.”

“You hit me hard enough. My head feels all lopsided. Why don't you be smart and turn me loose?”

“They'd kill you,” Chick said.

“Kill
me
? Are you crazy?”

Although the outlaws could hear him talking, they would not be able to distinguish the words.

“When the shootin' was goin' on, one of the bullets was aimed for you. Missed by mighty little.”

“You're lyin'! Doc an' Tobe are my friends!”

“What about Joslin?”

Curly Starr was silent.

After a while he threw another stick into the fire and somebody shot at him, but the bullet was high. Later, he glimpsed the flickering light from a fire back in the trees, sixty or seventy yards away.

Starr spoke suddenly. “Did you mean that? About the shot?”

“It hit the log right over you, and couldn't have been aimed at me.”

Bowdrie waited, studying the fire. He could barely see it flickering but decided to take a chance. Lifting his rifle, he fired three quick shots. He was shooting through underbrush, which might deflect a bullet, but at least one shot got through. Sparks shot up from the fire and somebody swore.

Later, he must have dozed, because he awakened with a start. Undoubtedly the outlaws were waiting until morning, not relishing an attack past the firelight.

Bowdrie crawled to the hole where the spring was. The old gourd dipper was probably dusty, but … He dipped up water and poured some over his head, then dipped again and drank.

The spring was right outside the wall, but the first resident or someone later had removed adobe bricks so the spring could be reached without going outside in case of an Indian attack. Suddenly Bowdrie got out his knife and began digging at a brick beside the hole. Carefully he removed several of the crumbling adobe bricks. Then he tossed a couple of sticks on the fire.

Returning, he slipped through the hole and flattened against the rock wall beyond the spring. He waited, but nothing moved.

Placing each foot with care, he moved away from the house. By the time he was close to the fire the sky was growing gray. One man was asleep, the other was placing fuel under the coffeepot. He was about to step out when the sleeping man opened his eyes and got to his feet suddenly. His eyes focused on Bowdrie, realization hit him, and he gave a startled yip and went for his gun. Bowdrie fired, but the man was weaving and his bullet missed.

A bullet whipped past his face, another hit his holster, half-turning him with its force. He fired again and Doc Bentley fell back against a tree.

Bowdrie swung his gun to Tobe, who, startled by Doc's surprised move, had shot too fast. Bowdrie's bullet caught Tobe Storey in the middle of the stomach and he stepped back and sat down. He started to lift his gun but could not. He fell sidewise and lay on his shoulder against the ground.

Bowdrie swung on Doc but the gunman lifted a shaky left hand. “Don't shoot! I've had it.”

“Throw your gun over here. With your left hand.”

The gun landed at his feet. “Where's Joslin?”

Doc made a feeble gesture with his left hand and, thumbing shells into his right-hand gun, Bowdrie ran into the woods. Suddenly he heard an outburst of firing at the cabin.

Ducking through the woods, he ran up to the fire. Ernie Joslin was standing over the fire. He was unsteady on his feet but he held a gun.

He turned toward Bowdrie, lifting his gun. Bowdrie fired. Joslin stood for an instant, then fell flat, all in one piece. Bowdrie walked over to him and kicked the gun from his hand.

Joslin was staring at him, his face against the ashes and earth. “If I'd known who you was there at first—”

“I knew who you were. I knew you by the cigarette. You threw it away too late. You said you'd never been south of Wichita, but folks around Deadwood don't smoke cigarettes. It's a Mexican habit, although it's workin' its way north, I expect. Men up Dakota, Montana way smoke cigars. Up north they think cigarettes are kind of ladylike.”

He turned to Starr. “Take off … take off these damned cuffs,” Starr pleaded. “I don't want to die with 'em on.”

Starr coughed, and when the coughing was over and the cuffs were off, he asked, “You got him?”

“One of us did.”

Folding his coat, he placed it under the head of the dying man. Then he opened Starr's shirt. There was nothing he could do.

“Got to your pack. Seen where you put my guns. I was figurin' on a break when Joslin come for me. He killed those men back yonder. Him an' Doc. I never went for killin' m'self. Joslin, he was a bad one. I knowed he didn't like me much, but …”

For a long time he was silent and then he whispered, “You write it. The boy … You say Bill Cross is gone. Dead. Buried. Put … it down.”

Billy Marsden was not in my outfit. The man named Bill Cross was badly wounded and we buried him in the hills. The killing was done by Ernie Joslin and Doc Bentley. This is my dying statement.

Bowdrie wrote it, then read it to him. “Good!” He waited, gathering strength, then he signed his name. “You … you keep that kid … straight.”

Bowdrie put wood on the fire. A glance at Joslin told him the man was gone. He hesitated to leave Starr, but he went back through the patch of woods.

As he came through the woods, he heard a shot. He hesitated, then went on. Tobe Storey lay where he had fallen.

Doc Bentley lay nearby. His right hand was horribly mangled from a bullet. He had taken Tobe's gun and shot himself.

“Maybe it's better than hangin',” Bowdrie said aloud; then, gathering up the weapons, he walked back to Starr.

“Joslin never liked me.” Starr had wiped the blood from his face and had pulled himself into a sitting position. “Figured to have all that bank loot for himself. It's cached under a flat rock at Granite Spring.”

He lay quite awhile, then said, “That Marsden girl? Sure pretty, wasn't she?” His voice trailed off and then he said, “Chick? Bury my saddle with me, will you? Might have some mean broncs where I'm goin'. Man feels the need of … of his own … saddle.”

“Want your boots off?”

There was a flicker of a smile on Curly's lips. “Lived with 'em on. I'll die with 'em, only don't cache me with him. Not with Joslin.”

Bowdrie went for the horses and brought them in, and loaded them with the weapons of the fallen men. Suddenly he heard Starr choking and ran to him. He had thrown out a hand and was gripping the horn of his saddle as it lay on the ground.

“They got me, kid! Bowdrie … I'm pullin' leather!”

Bowdrie dropped beside him and put a hand on Starr's shoulder. His hand had been there for several minutes before he realized the man was dead.

In the cool of the morning with the sun on his shoulders, Chick Bowdrie headed south and east, carrying in his thoughts the memory of a man who died game, and in his pocket another man's chance for a new life.

Too Tough to Brand

He rode into the ranch yard at sundown, and the big man standing in the door lifted a hand. “ ‘Light an' set! You come far?”

“Fort Griffin. How's for some grub?”

Two men lounged on the steps of the bunkhouse, both studying him with interest. “This is the O Bar O, isn't it?”

The man came down the steps. He was unshaved, and his lips were thin and cruel. Chick Bowdrie tried to keep his thinking unclouded, but this was a man it would be hard to like. “Are you the Ranger?”

“I am. Name of Chick Bowdrie.”

“Heard of you. Figured you'd be an older feller.”

“I'm old enough.” Bowdrie was irritated. “Lead me to some grub an' tell me what happened.”

“My name is Lee Karns,” the big man said when they were seated. “I own this outfit. My foreman was Bert Ramey and he took off for town to bank money for a cattle sale. He skipped with it. It was fifteen thousand dollars.”

A girl with a lonely, frightened face brought coffee to the table. She was a pretty girl, but now her cheeks were tearstained. He looked away hurriedly, not to make her self-conscious.

“Was all that money yours?” Chick glanced casually around the room. It was painfully neat. The dishes were clean, yet Karns himself was an untidy man.

“It was mine. Ramey had been with me six years, a steady, all-around man.”

The door opened and a tall, slender young man came in. He was flashily dressed, but there was nothing dressy about the well-worn Colts in his holsters.

Karns indicated him. “Mark DeGrasse, my new foreman. This here's Chick Bowdrie, Mark.”

DeGrasse threw Bowdrie a quick glance. It was the glance of a man sizing up a rival, and with inner excitement and a flick of warning in his brain, Chick realized this was one of those gunmen who can brook no rivals, a man who must always be top dog. He had met such men before, and they were dangerous.

DeGrasse dropped into a place at the table. He glanced at the girl. “You'd better eat. It won't bring your father back if you starve yourself.”

Bowdrie glanced inquiringly at Karns, and the rancher said, “This is Karen Ramey, Bert's daughter. She's upset over what happened.”

“How long has he been gone?” Bowdrie hated to continue with questions when Karen was unhappy, but he must have answers.

“Week. It's only a day's ride into Comanche. Bert went alone. We'd no reason to expect trouble, as nobody knowed he was carryin' money. When he never came back, we rode into town and found he'd never even gotten there. Looks like he just hightailed it out of the country.”

“It isn't likely that he'd go off and leave his daughter!”

“That's just it,” Karns said. “She ain't his daughter. She's just a girl his wife took in to raise, an' after his wife died, he was saddled with her.”

Karen Ramey looked up resentfully. “He didn't think of me as a burden, and I thought of him as my own father! I'll never believe he ran off! I think he was murdered!
Somebody
knew he had that money!”

“There, there, honey!” Karns reached a hand for hers. “Don't fret none. You'll be took care of.”

She sprang to her feet, eyes blazing. “I can take care of myself, thank you! I'll go into Comanche and get a job! Or …”—her eyes turned on DeGrasse—“I'll go to El Paso!”

The foreman's lips tightened. There was nothing pleasant in the way in which he looked at her. Bowdrie sipped his coffee and listened. There was something under the surface here, something strange going on. Why had DeGrasse reacted so oddly to Karen's reference to El Paso?

Turning abruptly, she went through a door into what was apparently her room, and for a time the men ate in silence.

“Can't blame her, bein' upset,” Karns said smoothly. “Matter of fact, she can stay right here. She's a fine-lookin' girl, and a man could go a long ways to find a better wife.”

Mark DeGrasse stared at Karns with thinly veiled contempt.

“Did anybody else know he was to be carryin' money?” Bowdrie asked.

“Al did, I suppose,” DeGrasse said. “He's one of the punchers, and he was outside when Lee brought the saddlebags to Bert before he left for Comanche.”

After further questioning, Karns and DeGrasse sat on the steps and talked in low tones. Chick loafed about, his eyes missing nothing. There was every evidence the ranch was in good shape, to judge by the area around the house. Judging by Karns's appearance, Bowdrie was willing to bet the condition of the place was due to Ramey.

The hands seemed to have liked Ramey, but they were not inclined to talk. Not even Al Conway, a hard-faced cowhand with a lean jaw and irritable eyes. Not until Bowdrie mentioned marriage between Karns and the girl.

Al spat disgustedly into the dirt. “If she was to marry anybody, it would be that snake in DeGrasse!”

One of the hands chuckled at the pun, but added, “Better keep your voice down, Al. You ain't the hand to buck him with a gun, and he's touchy, mighty touchy!”

“I ain't afraid of him.” Al spoke coolly, and while Bowdrie doubted that Al was afraid, he also doubted that Conway wanted to tangle with DeGrasse.

Chick dropped his blanket roll near some cottonwoods not far from the house. He had no love for sleeping inside and wanted his horse near him. There was something about lying under the stars that was conducive to thought, and he had some thinking to do.

Bert Ramey was missing with fifteen thousand dollars, yet everything seemed to indicate he was not a man to steal. The fact remained that he was missing. Lee Karns, on the other hand, acted oddly in some respects, but that could be due to a good many things. There were undercurrents here that disturbed him.

Al Conway was a character to be considered as well. Obviously he was smoldering with resentment, the reason for which was not plain. If Ramey had been murdered, he left behind strange tensions on the O Bar O that stemmed from an unknown source. Perhaps they tied in with his disappearance, perhaps not.

It was very late and he must have just fallen asleep when movement awakened him. He glimpsed the girl standing in the shadows close by. “I have to talk to you!” she whispered.

“Anybody see you leave the house?”

“No, I am sure they did not. Oh, Mr. Bowdrie, I am sure my father didn't run off. He was such a good man! And there's something wrong here. Something terribly wrong!”

“Tell me about it,” he whispered.

“It may have no connection, but a few days ago Father said he wanted to get me away from here, that something was going on behind his back. He said cattle were disappearing, that a good many had vanished while he was gone with the herd.”

“Ramey sold the cattle? Who collected the money?”

“Father did. He took the drive to Julesberg, collected the money, and returned. Some of the money should have been his, too.”

“How was that? What do you mean?”

“Karns never paid Father very much. The bank was after Karns for money, as all the stock was mortgaged to them, and he kept telling Dad he would pay him when the cattle were sold. Karns owed Father more than a thousand dollars, and he owed the bank a lot, because they loaned him the money to stock the ranch.”

That altered the situation. Karns owed both his foreman and the bank, so if the money vanished, he could pay neither of them. From his standpoint that did not make sense, as he would then lose the ranch to the bank. Whatever happened, it did not seem likely that Karns was himself involved.

Nor did it make sense that Ramey, if he had that money as far away as Julesberg, would then bring it all the way back here before stealing it.

For an hour he questioned Karen, and long after she returned to her room he lay awake considering all aspects of the case.

Yet the following afternoon when he trotted the roan down the street of Comanche, he was no nearer a solution. The loss of fifteen thousand dollars, a very considerable sum, as well as the disappearance of a ranch foreman, was sure to be discussed in town, and the easiest way to learn was to listen and keep his mouth shut.

By midnight when he stretched out on his bed in his hotel room, Chick Bowdrie had learned a few things.

Lee Karns had mortgaged his stock and his headquarters land to the bank for seven thousand dollars, to be paid when the cattle were sold. The main reason the bank had loaned the money to him was because Bert Ramey was foreman. Bert was a known and respected stockman, and Ramey's last report had been that the increase had been a shade better than normal. Nobody wanted to believe Bert Ramey was a thief, yet many believed there was no alternative. Others, frankly skeptical, were waiting until all the evidence was in.

One definite lead had come from a big whiskery cowhand. He had recognized Chick and commented in a low tone, “Seen you over to Uvalde a couple of times. This here ain't none of my affair, but if I was huntin' Ramey, I'd ride up to the Canadian River country an' look up a brand called the Spectacles.”

“Why that outfit?”

The puncher shrugged. “I don't know from nothin', only Ramey heard I'd ridden for an outfit up that way and he was curious about that Spectacle brand. A gent named Lessinger had owned it, but he sold out and went east.”

Crossing the street to the hotel, Bowdrie saw DeGrasse standing on the steps of the saloon.

“Howdy!” The foreman smiled through a cloud of cigarette smoke. “Solved the crime yet?”

“Just sort of sashayin' about listenin' to folks. Tomorrow will be soon enough. I guess Ramey's got clean out of the country. Wonder what he was plannin' on? Buyin' his own place, maybe? I hear he was interested in the Canadian River country.”

DeGrasse stiffened sharply, and the smile left his face. “I wouldn't know about that,” he replied. “We never talked much.”

“He didn't like you around Karen, though, did he?” Bowdrie slipped the question into the conversation like a knife.

The gunman turned, flicking his cigarette into the dust. “That doesn't concern you, Ranger! You get on with your lawin' an' don't go nosin' into things that don't concern you. It was Lee Karns he had trouble with over Karen, not me. You just keep your nose out of my business!”

Bowdrie shrugged. “You may be right. I'll just look around a little.”

As he turned away, obviously sidestepping a fight, he caught the hard triumph showing in the gunman's eyes. DeGrasse had him pegged as a four-flusher who would back down in a pinch.

As he stepped through the door of the hotel, Bowdrie glanced back. DeGrasse had disappeared, probably into the saloon, but he saw something else. A man stepped from the shadows near the saloon, and Bowdrie recognized him as Al Conway.

Later, Chick went to the telegraph office and sent two wires, then returned to the hotel and to bed. His needling of DeGrasse had brought out two facts. Mark knew something about the Spectacle Ranch on the Canadian, and there had been trouble with Ramey about Karen.

The Spectacle brand offered interesting possibilities, and a vague theory was beginning to take shape in Bowdrie's thinking. As yet it lacked any basis of probability, and the theory had a major flaw. What had become of Bert Ramey?

No crime could be proved without evidence, and the facts indicated Bert Ramey was the thief, yet evidence can be misleading. Ramey was gone, and the fifteen thousand dollars was gone. Bowdrie must find Ramey and the money. If Ramey did not have it, what about Lee Karns? Mark DeGrasse? And where did Al Conway fit in?

There were cattle missing, so there must be organized rustling, and a man who would steal cattle would steal money resulting from their sale.

Daylight found him on the return trip, but now he was riding warily and looking for a horse trail that would lead off across the sagebrush country. When another day was almost gone, he found what he was looking for.

He knew the trail at once, for he had taken the precaution of checking at the blacksmith shop in Comanche, learning that nearly all O Bar O horses were shod there. In most cases horses were shod right on the ranch, but the O Bar O had theirs shod in Comanche. Bowdrie had even found a set of shoes that had been recently removed from Ramey's horse. The smith had indicated the shoes with his hammer. “Always liked his horses well-shod, Mr. Ramey did. He knew my work and figured the little extry it cost was worth it.” So Bowdrie knew Ramey's tracks when he saw them.

When it grew too dark to follow further, Bowdrie rode off the trail and made camp. He was on the verge of sleep when the idea came to him, and he believed he knew why Bert Ramey had left the trail.

Awakening before day broke, Bowdrie hastily built a fire, for the morning was chill. While waiting for the coffee, he considered what he knew and suspected, yet trying to view all the facts objectively and trying to avoid jumping to conclusions.

The trail Ramey had taken would lead him toward the Canadian. Had Ramey stolen the money so he could buy a ranch?

Supposing, however, that Ramey was honest, and that from that high point on the trail he had observed a distant moving herd of cattle? The O Bar O had been losing cattle, and Ramey as its foreman would be inclined to investigate any such movements.

The sound of a moving horse brought him to his feet. It was Karen Ramey, riding a gray gelding.

“Trailin' somebody?” he asked as he stepped into view.

“Yes, I am! You may think my father is a thief, but I do not. He wouldn't run off and leave me on that ranch! He knew I hated Lee Karns and was afraid of Mark DeGrasse!”

“Maybe we should work together,” Bowdrie suggested. “Wait until I throw my gear together.” He started to turn away, then looked back. “Karen, you said something to Mark about El Paso. What did that mean?”

“It may be nothing at all, yet he talked to Karns about El Paso, and they were so secretive, I was curious.”

“You made a good guess, I'm thinking. You wait here until I get my horse.”