Twin Guns (7 page)

"It isn't your fault, Kirby. I suppose, in a way, it isn't Bill's either, because he's doing what he thinks is right. But when I marry, I'll give myself to my man forever and ever. If we got married tomorrow, the next day you might be lying stretched in the mud of Streeter, without ever beginning the thing that Ma and Muddy built for years."

"If this trouble is ever over, then we'll talk about it again. But for now, I think I'd better get back to town, to the kids that need to learn their A B C's. It won't be what I want, but it will have to do. I don't ever want just a part of you, and if I married you now, with this trouble hanging over your head, I'd be getting what was left…"

Her words were interrupted by the crash of a rifle. Her horse gave a scream of pain and fright and would have bolted had not the trailing reins caught on a rock and brought her around so quickly that she nearly stumbled and fell. Kirby raced to her, his feet slipping in the soft shale underfoot. In a moment Jen was at his side, her hair loosened and flying in the wind.

For a moment they stared at the filly. High up on her foreleg, the saddle blanket almost covering it, an ugly round hole was beginning to ooze blood. Speaking soothingly, Kirby managed to reach the reins. Jen held her while he made a more careful examination. "The bullet didn't go clean through," he said. "It went deep enough, but it must have glanced off the bone and come out here." He lifted the saddle blanket to show her. "We'll have to get her home quick. Maybe, with luck, we can pull her through." He stared in the direction from which the single shot had come. "It's bad enough to shoot at an armed man from ambush," he said between clenched teeth, "but when they start shooting defenseless animals out of sheer spite, it's time they were stopped, once and for all."

Jen watched his face, her eyes troubled as she stroked the trembling mare.

"We've put off riding to Lazy B about that gather snatched across the river. I reckon the time has come to start asking some questions."

Jen was puzzled. "But why would anyone want to shoot my horse? Maybe it was an accident… maybe they were aiming at one of us."

Kirby shook his head. "Whoever fired that rifle was a good shot. He missed hitting a vital spot only because the filly moved at the right time."

"But why, Kirby, why?"

Kirby's eyes were grim, a tiny red spark beginning to glow in their depths.

"Because she was my Christmas present to you. Because she stood for something that no one else could ever hope to have. Because you love me."

Jen's words were so low he could hardly hear them. "Now do you see what I mean; why we can't get married now? What if it had been you that bullet had hit? What if it had been me? Don't you see what's between us? It's a shadow, Kirby, a black shadow. And there's smoke around its edges… gunsmoke."

Wordlessly Kirby went for his black. Still without speaking, he held his hands for Jen's foot and, once she was mounted, took the reins of the mare and climbed up behind her. Silently they started slowly toward the Wagon, the filly limping behind. In Jen's eyes tears still glistened, but Kirby's had become hard as agate… the eyes of a man with a deadly purpose.

Curly came to the bunkhouse door just as Kirby and Jen rode into the yard, leading the limping bay. The hole in her shoulder had stopped bleeding, but she was hobbling on three legs and stood trembling in every muscle, her head drooping.

Curly stared for a moment, pop-eyed, then said something to the men in the bunkhouse. In a moment they were surrounded by curious hands, whose curiosity turned to anger when they found out what had happened.

"Another drygulch job?" Josh asked, his eyes hard.

"I don't know whether the bullet was meant for one of us or for the horse. Look her over, Josh, and see what you think. We can't let her suffer. If she's bad hurt, have one of the boys…" He stopped at the sight of Jen's distressed face.

"You better get in where it's warm, Jen. We'll do all we can to save her." The slender girl was dry-eyed, but her eyes were bright with unshed tears as she turned away and walked toward the house. Maria had heard the commotion in the yard and was standing in the kitchen door. Wordlessly she took the girl in her arms and led her into the house. Kirby caught a racking sob as the door closed, and he gritted his teeth. He watched Manuel lead the mare slowly into a shed.

"How sober are your boys?" he asked Josh, his voice as cold as the growing evening chill.

"Sober enough to do a job," answered the foreman shortly.

"Curly and Ringo know about the rustling job. Pick two or three more boys and have them saddle up. And rope me another mount; the black's been carrying double. See that the boys are all carrying their guns. Be ready in ten minutes."

"You riding to Lazy B tonight? There's no moon, and it'll be plumb dark in an hour."

Kirby looked at his foreman as if he'd never seen him before.

"I said, be ready in ten minutes. We don't need light for the job I have in mind." He turned on his heel and stalked to the shed where Manuel was working with the little mare.

"What do you think, Manuel? If anyone on the place can save her, you can. But I don't want her to suffer."

Manuel's eyes were grave. "She's lost a lot of blood, but there's no bones broke. She may have a stiff shoulder, but I think I can pull her through. Can't say what she'll be like once she's healed up."

Kirby nodded. "Do what you can. We'll take a chance on a stiff shoulder. May have to keep her for a brood mare, but she deserves a chance if you think she'll live."

He went across to his waiting crew. Curly, Ringo and three other punchers watched silently as he approached. Gathering the reins of the roan Josh had saddled for him, he had his toe in the oxbow when a thought stopped him. He turned.

"This is trouble," he said, "big trouble… but it's Wagon's trouble. There may gunplay before this night is over. I'm not asking anyone to ride into bullets. If anyone wants to stay on Wagon, now's the time to say so. There'll be nothing said about it, now or any other time." He tried a grin, but it was more of a grimace. "Can't blame anyone for not wanting to get shot on Christmas."

No one answered him for a moment. Then Curly looked him full in the face, his eyes hostile. "You said there was Wagon trouble. Me and the other boys have always figured that we was part of Wagon. Kinda proud of it. Some of the boys are right put out they wasn't asked to ride. Figger when people start shootin' at women and horses, Christmas is over."

Kirby dropped his eyes before Curly's steady gaze. "Sorry I had to say that. Just wanted things straight. This thing won't end tonight. It may not end until some of us have been planted up there with Ma and Muddy. This is only the beginning."

Ringo murmured, "It's cold here, palaverin'. Be warmer ridin'."

Kirby knew better than to try to express his thanks. He felt a lift of pride and gratitude. These men were not only willing to stake their lives on his word, but were ready to argue their right to fight. They had backed Muddy in every move he made. What man wouldn't feel a glow to know his friends would back him to the limit without even asking from where the bullets would come? He climbed into the saddle, a lump in his throat. Maria and Jen came to the door and watched silently as he led a thundering parade of hoofs across the yard.

It was black night when they rode into Lazy B. Lights showed in several rooms, and there was a dim lantern burning at the entrance of the barn. There was no sign of life about house or outbuildings.

Kirby pulled his horse to a stop facing the door, aware that his men had formed a semicircle at his back. Josh was at his side.

"Hello the house," he called, his voice shattering the night's quiet. There was no answer, and he started to climb down when the door opened and a man's silhouette blotted out the light for a moment as he stepped out on the porch.

"What's wanted?" he asked, and they all recognized the strident voice of Hub Dawes.

"Get Bill out here," Kirby told him, dislike showing in his tone.

"Bill ain't here. He's been gone since early in the afternoon. What do you want with him?"

"That's no affair of yours, Dawes. Now I'll ask you one, and your answer better be the right one. Why didn't you ride with Bill? I never see him any more without you looking like his shadow. And where have you been all afternoon?"

"I don't like your tone much, friend."

"You'll like it even less if I have to ask you again."

"You doubting my word, Kirby?"

"Your word isn't any better than your reputation, and that isn't worth anything. And if you ever speak to me again, remember that only my friends call me Kirby." He swung to the ground, walked up to Dawes and seized him by the front of the shirt, lifting him until the man stood on his toes.

"This is the last time. Why aren't you with Bill?"

Dawes tried to bluster, then thought better of it. "I was drunk," he replied sullenly. "I was sleeping it off when Bill took some of the crew in town to celebrate."

Kirby thrust him back against the porch railing. "Get out of my way; I'll see who's inside." Dawes' hand made an almost involuntary movement toward his hip as Kirby turned his back. Josh spoke quietly. "Do that, Hub. Go ahead and pull that gun. I ain't killed me a snake since last summer."

Kirby came back out on the porch. "There's no one here but a couple of drunks," he said disgustedly. "Place smells like a brewery." He stopped and looked Dawes up and down.

"Remember this, Hub. You ever set foot on Wagon again where one of us can see you, and you better have a gun in your fist. We don't like your smell." He deliberately shouldered him aside. "And that includes your outfit."

Hub found his voice. "Bill ain't gonna like that kind of talk."

"I'll soon find out how he likes it. We're riding to town right now, and I intend to give him the same warning. One of these days soon we'll come calling on you, Dawes. Any cows running loose on your place better have the right brand—old brands."

Once again Dawes tried to bluster. "You come out to my place, you'd better bring plenty help. Me and the boys can hardly wait for your call. Bring your whole crew."

"That's an idea, Hub. That's an idea."

Half a dozen ponies, all bearing Lazy B mark, stood at the hitchrack before the Nugget as Wagon rode into town. Only the saloon and the livery stable showed lights; the rest of Streeter was celebrating the holiday.

Joe was watching the door when they entered, having caught the sound of their boots on the wooden sidewalk. "Merry Christmas, gents," he said with a false cheerfulness belied by the furrow of worry crossing his genial countenance. "Belly up and have one on the house."

"And a Merry Christmas to you," Kirby answered for his group, his eyes taking in the saloon's other patrons. Bill stood at the bar, flanked by five riders. Three of them Kirby had known all his life. They were range bums, cowhands who drifted from one job to another; men who would think nothing of hazing someone's steers or heating a running iron in a small hidden fire. The appearance of the two strangers proclaimed their calling as if each had worn a placard across his soiled shirt. One was a dark, dour man, well past middle age. The other looked like a mere boy until one got a look at his face. His hair, showing ragged beneath a battered Stetson, was almost white, dirty white. His eyelashes were the same color, and his eyes were flat and dull, nearly opaque.

These must be the gunhawks Josh told me Bill hired, he thought. He felt a chill as he returned the unwinking stare of the youngest gunman. "We'll take that drink in just a minute, Joe," he said. "First, though, I've got business with Bill."

Bill had his back to the room. He pivoted slowly, his elbows on the bar, boot heel hooked over the rail. His face was flushed, his eyes glittering with liquor and hate.

"Well, well, brother mine. You feeling the Christmas spirit? I thought you and I weren't on speaking terms. Now you want to talk business. Don't tell me you want to sell Wagon," he sneered.

Kirby studied his florid face. "You know Wagon isn't for sale to you," he said coldly. "But I'm beginning to understand where you're getting money to make such offers."

Bill's eyes narrowed. "I don't think I like what you're implying, brother dear."

"I don't care a hoot what you like. Maybe the truth hurts."

"Get on with your business, Kirby. I'm in no mood to take any of your guff."

Kirby was watching the young gunman, who had moved slightly away from the bar and was standing with his right hand hooked into his gunbelt, his feet wide apart. The older stranger hadn't moved, but out of the corner of his eye he could see that Josh was watching his every move.

"Here it is, Bill. And you won't like it. Early this winter someone rustled more than two hundred head of prime Wagon beef from the river flats. Five days later you sold about two hundred more steers than you owned. They were all re-branded Lazy B. I'm not saying that you hazed my cows across the river personally, but I'm saying that you sold more cows than you had left from the split. Where did you get 'em?"

Despite the import of Kirby's words, fighting talk on the range, something like honest surprise crossed Bill's face before it was supplanted by rage. "That's shootin' talk, Kirby, but I'm letting you go for a minute. I don't know a darn thing about your cows. The ones I sold were what was left of the herd Muddy left me, no more."

"Did you ship your stuff from Galeyville?"

"Yeah, I did. Or rather, I ordered it shipped from there. I wasn't along; Hub Dawes made the drive for me. I've got a paper to prove it."

"You're going to find another paper in your mailbox tomorrow. You're going to get a bill for two hundred head of prime beef at the market at the time of the sale. I'll give you just ten days to pay up. If I don't get the money, I'm going to take you to court, and I'm going to tie up Lazy B so tight you won't even be able to draw your breath."

Bill stared at him in astonishment. "By gosh, I believe you're serious. You've just accused me of rustling."