The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 2 (45 page)

“Bonelli will pistol-whip me. He threatened it.”

“Keep your doors locked. If there's a ruckus, I'll come running. Anyway, these messages don't concern Bonelli or you.”

Chick took the mesages and walked back up the dark street, pausing briefly in the light of a window to read the messages again. The first presented no problem.

Jed Chapin's brother loaned him eight thousand. All regular. Impossible Chapin could reach Pecos in time.

The second message left Bowdrie a lot to think about.

Wiley Martin not wanted in Texas. Wanted in Missouri, Wyoming, and Nebraska for killings on Tom, Bench, and Red Fox. If he's your man, be careful! His real name Jay Burke. Will not be taken alive.

Jay Burke. The name was familiar. He was the last survivor of the Saltillo Cattle War that had taken place on both sides of the border. The Burke enemies had been the notorious Fox family of outlaws. The Fox outlaws had killed Jay Burke's father and destroyed his home. Jay Burke's pursuit of the outlaws was legend. He had followed them from state to state and killed them where he found them; all were killed in fair stand-up fights.

Bob Travis still sat at his table when Bowdrie walked into the saloon and seated himself across from him. Erlanger and Bonelli were present, and Bowdrie caught a dark, malicious gleam in Bonelli's eyes as he sat down.

His face inscrutable, the gray-eyed man faced Bowdrie, measuring him with careful attention. “You have made a good start on your job, Bowdrie.”

“You know me, then?”

“The whole town knows. They also know—” he struck a match and lifted it to his cigarette—“what you're here for.”

“Not many of them seem to want to talk,” Bowdrie said.

Travis' eyes flickered to Bowdrie's. “Then somebody has?”

“Of course.” Chick picked up the deck of cards and shuffled them. “There is always somebody who will.” His eyes strayed to Bonelli, who was trying to conceal his interest.

“I see.” Travis seemed uncertain, and Bowdrie's face indicated nothing. Travis, he was thinking, was a dangerous man, which was probably why Bonelli had left him alone.

On his part, Travis was studying Bowdrie and wondering about the next move. Bowdrie was known as a hard, relentless man, but rumor credited him with many acts of kindness. “What are you going to do?” he asked finally.

“Ask some questions. Where did you go in Texas?”

“To a ranch north of Pecos.”

“Not to Pecos itself?”

“No. Although I passed within a mile of it.”

“You rode your gray?”

“Why, yes, I did. Why? What's wrong?”

“I tracked that gray from in front of the Pecos Bank. The man who rode that horse killed two men while robbin' the bank.”

Travis was white to the eyes, and Bowdrie reached a careful hand to his shirt pocket to bring forth the message that mentioned Burke. He handed it to Travis.

Travis glanced at it. “What you have here”—he indicated the message—“is true. You know from what it says here the kind of man I am. No Burke ever robbed a bank. No Burke ever lied. I did not ride into Pecos. I did not rob a bank. I have never killed anyone in Texas.”

Bonelli was still watching them, but he was frowning now, and impatient. Jeff Erlanger had moved to the bar and was standing with his back to it, glass in hand, watching Bowdrie.

“Travis, I would like to believe you, but today you talked to Amy Chapin in the street, and the tracks of your horse were the tracks of the horse the killer rode!”

“What?”
He leaned forward. “Man, why didn't you say so? I rode a gray horse, all right, but not that horse. Today was the first time I've ridden him, although he's been in my corral back of the saloon for the past two months.”

Bowdrie took the letter from his pocket, the letter addressed to Wiley Martin that had been found outside the bank after the robbery.

“This letter was dropped by the killer. It is addressed to you.”

“Yes,” Travis agreed, “that letter came to me. I do not recall seeing it again after receiving it.”

“About those horses in the corral? Did anybody but you ever ride them?”

“Half the town did. I kept at least a dozen head there. My own riders rode them when they needed a fresh horse, but so did various people around town, but I can't imagine anybody actually taking one of them to Texas!”

Chick shoved back his chair. “Don't let it bother you, Travis, and just stick that message in your pocket. You aren't wanted in Texas, and I don't make arrests for anybody else. There were a few points I wanted to clear up. Now I know the answers.”

He got to his feet, his eyes sweeping the room.

Erlanger lounged against the bar, watching him. Bonelli remained at his table, but he seemed uneasy now. Then the door opened and Jed Chapin came in. Buffalo Barton was with him.

“Tex,” Chapin said, “I've got to see you!”

“Later,” Bowdrie replied. “I've some work to do!”

Bonelli took something in his hand, glanced at it, then tossed it into his mouth.

“Bonelli, I am a Texas Ranger. I am arresting you for the robbery of the Pecos Bank and the murder of two men there!”

Bonelli got up. “That's a lot of hogwash! You've got the deadwood on Travis! Or Martin, if he wants to call himself that! You've got nothing on me!”

“You're wrong, Bonelli. I have all I need, even though you did all you could to implicate Travis, and so rid yourself of the one man you feared. You dropped that letter of Martin's where it would be found. You rode one of his horses, planning for the trail to lead to him.”

Bonelli shrugged with apparent indifference. “Prove it! I've people will swear I was never out of the state, and you can't prove I was ever in Texas!”

“Bonelli, a few days ago I noticed a habit you have. You chew wingscale seeds, like some Zunis do. You're doing it now. You were chewing them tonight when I talked to you on the street, and you were chewing them when you waited across the street from the bank in Pecos. It isn't a common habit, Bonelli.”

“That's no proof. That's no proof at all!”

“It's enough for me to ask you to take off your shirt, Bonelli. You bathed the dust off your upper body in the trough by the corral in Pecos, and some people there saw the tattoo under your heart. Will that be proof, Bonelli?”

“I didn't rob no bank!”

“Take off your shirt and show us. If you've no tattoo, I'll not only apologize but I'll stand treat for the house.”

“All right! I'll show you! I'll prove you wrong!” His hands went to the buttons on his shirt and dropped to his gun butt.

The draw was fast, for when his hand went to the buttons it was already moving and within inches of the gun, but Bowdrie had expected it and his gun stabbed flame an instant faster.

At almost the same instant, Travis fired across the tabletop, smashing Jeff Erlanger against the bar. His knees sagged and he went to the floor, but Bowdrie was watching Bonelli.

He was still on his feet, his lips twisted in a wry, unhappy grin. “Guess I wasn't cut out for … for this here game.” He sank to the floor and spilled over on his face.

Gently Bowdrie turned him over. “I knew it was you,” he muttered. “Had you spotted.”

“No … no hard feelings?”

“No hard feelings. I'm only sorry you took the wrong turn in the trail.”

“Yeah.” Bonelli stared upward into the darkness near the ceiling. “Guess that was it. Had me a little ranch once, in Texas.” He fumbled for words, but though his lips twisted, no sound came.

Bowdrie stood back, glanced around the room, then walked over to Travis' table and sat down.

He glanced at Erlanger's body, then at Travis. “Thanks,” he said; then he added, “Bonelli gave himself away earlier. He told me I'd know the tracks of Travis' gray if I saw them, but the only way he could have known I got here by following the gray was by seeing me.

“For all he could have known, I'd gotten here by trailin'
you,
because your trail and his crossed each other now and again. A good tracker can tell a lot by the trail of the man he is followin'. You rode like a man with an easy conscience, but Bonelli spent a lot of time stoppin' from time to time to look down his back trail, and he kept under cover wherever he could.”

“That's what I wanted to tell you about,” Chapin said. “I located a man who saw Bonelli take that gray from the corral.” He looked from Travis to Bowdrie. “Amy's outside, Tex.”

Bowdrie went outside. Amy sat in the buckboard. “I'm glad you're all right,” she said. “Now you know why I couldn't tell you about Wiley Martin.”

“Everybody seemed to like him,” Bowdrie admitted. “And I guess he was the only man standing between the Bonelli crowd and even more trouble.”

“It wasn't only that, Tex. He's my uncle. You see, my mother's name was Burke, and my uncle's name was Robert Jay Burke. He used whatever name was handy when he was on the trail of the Foxes, and when he first located here, he was known as Travis. He just kept that name.”

Amy glanced at Chick. “Are you going to accept Dad's offer? He does need help.”

Bowdrie shook his head. “There's too much to do back in Texas, and I'm a tumbleweed, I guess.”

“You can always come back, Tex.” Then she said, “I shouldn't call you that, I guess. They say you are Chick Bowdrie.” Then she laughed. “However did you get a name like Chick?”

He smiled. “My name was Charles. Most times Chuck is a nickname for Charles, but there was another boy in school who was called Chuck. He was bigger than I was, so they called me Chick.” He chuckled. “I never minded.”

When he was back in the hotel, he started thinking again about Amy. Maybe if he stayed on, worked for her father, and …

A Ranger Rides to Town

Morning lay sprawled in sleepy comfort in the sunlit streets. The banker's rooster, having several times proclaimed the fact that he was up and doing, walked proudly toward the dusty street. The banker, his shirttail hanging out, was just leaving the front door accompanied by two men, both dusty from hard riding.

Outside the bank a rider clad in a linen duster sat astride a blood bay with his rifle across his knees and the reins of three other horses in his hands. The fourth man of the group leaned against a storefront some twenty yards away with a rifle in his hands.

The bank's door was already wide open and the banker and his escort disappeared within.

East of town the dry wash had been bridged and the sound of a horse's hooves on that bridge was always audible within the town. Now, suddenly, that bridge thundered with the hoofbeats of a hard-ridden horse, and the two men in the street looked sharply around.

Behind his house, Tommy Ryan, thirteen years old and small for his age, was splitting wood. He glanced around in time to see a man on a hammerhead roan, the horse's sides streaked with sweat, charge into the street. The man wore a black flat-crowned hat and the two guns in his hands were not there for fun.

The man in the linen duster was closest, and he hesitated, waiting to see who or what was approaching. When he saw a rider with pistols in his hand and a Ranger's badge on his chest, he lifted his rifle, but too late. The rider's bullet cut a long furrow the length of his forearm and smashed his elbow. The rifle fell into the dust. Numb with shock, the rider sat gripping his arm and staring.

The rifleman down the street caught the second bullet just as he himself fired. He stood for an instant, then turned and walked three steps and fell on his face. One spur rowel kept turning a moment after he fell.

When the shooting was over, one of the banker's escorts lay sprawled in the doorway, gun in hand, and the Ranger stood over him, gun in hand, staring into the shadowy precincts of the bank.

Another man with a badge pushed his way through the crowd that gathered. “Hi, Bowdrie! I'm Hadley, sheriff. I didn't know there were any Rangers in the country.”

“Looks like I got here just in time,” Bowdrie commented. He kept a pistol in his hand.

“Some shootin',” a bystander commented.

“Surprise,” Bowdrie said. “They didn't expect anybody to come shooting. I had an edge.”

Sheriff Hadley led the way into the bank. Two men lay dead on the floor, one of them the banker. He had been shot through the head at close range.

“He was a good man,” Hadley said. “The town needed him.” He glanced around. “You scored a clean sweep. You got 'em all.”

“That's what it looks like,” he agreed. His eyes swept the scene with a swift, all-seeing glance. Then he went past the bodies and into the private office of the banker. It was cool there, and undisturbed.

Bowdrie paused for a long minute, looking around, considering not only what he saw but what he had just seen. This room had been the seat of a man's pride, of his life's work. He had been a man who was building something, not only for himself and those who followed, but for his country. This man was putting down roots, enabling others to do the same.

Now he was dead, and for what? That some loose-gunned wastrels might have a few dollars to spend on whiskey and women.

He turned to look back into the bank, where Hadley was squatting beside the bodies. “No business today, Hadley. I want the bank closed.”

“Young Jim Cane can handle it,” Hadley said. “He's a good man.”

“Nevertheless, I want the bank closed for business. I want to look around. Don't explain, just close it.”

Tommy Ryan stared wide-eyed at the Ranger. He had been hearing stories of Chick Bowdrie but had never seen a real live Ranger before. Bowdrie's eyes wandered the street, studying the storefronts, the upstairs windows. Who might have been a witness? In a town of early risers, somebody must have seen what happened before the hold-up.

“Anything I can do?” The man was tall and well-set-up, with blond hair and friendly eyes. “I'm Kent Friede. I was a friend of Hayes's.”

“Nothin' anybody can do, Kent. Hayes never had a chance. Shot right through the skull. Bowdrie here come in on 'em and made a cleanup. He got 'em all.”

“No,” Bowdrie said quietly, oblivious of the startled glances from Hadley and Friede. “I got three. But I didn't shoot at that man inside the bank and he didn't shoot Hayes.”

“What?” Hadley turned on him. “Then who—?”

“There was a fifth man who never appeared in the operation. He killed both Hayes and the outlaw inside the bank.”

“I don't follow,” Friede said. “How could that be?”

Bowdrie shrugged. “Who runs the bank now? Is it this Jim Cane you mentioned?”

“If there's anything left to run. Lucky they didn't get away with any money.”

“It's my guess they did get the money,” Bowdrie said. “The fifth man got it, and it's my bet he knew where to look.”

“You're implying it was an inside job?” Friede was obviously skeptical. “I don't believe that. Jim Cane's a fine young man. We all trust him.”

Bowdrie waved a hand. “Close it up, Hadley, and give me the key. Some things don't fit, but they will before I'm through.”

Yet as he walked along the street he was far from feeling confident. The outlaw with the broken arm had been taken to jail and must be questioned. Bowdrie had an idea he would know nothing. The man who planned this job would have been shrewd enough to communicate with only one man, undoubtedly the outlaw killed inside the bank. At least, that was how it looked now.

He believed there was a fifth man involved, but it was no more than a theory and one that might not hold water.

First, his own arrival had not been by chance. He had been tipped that a robbery was planned. Who had tipped him, and why? Who had thrown that note wrapped around a rock into his campsite only a few hours ago? A note that warned him of the hold-up and how it was to be carried out? At first glance he had seen that the banker had been killed from close up. Also, when he entered the bank there had been a thin blue tinge of tobacco smoke in the office air, and the smell of tobacco. None of the outlaws had been smoking, nor had the harried banker.

Nor was there any reason for them to enter the private office. The huge old safe was against the back wall some distance away, and it was before this safe that Hayes had been murdered. A man standing in the door of the private office could have fired that shot, yet all Bowdrie's man-hunting experience told him no outlaws would have been in that position. But suppose a man had already been hidden inside the bank?

A small boy stood nearby in bare feet and Bowdrie glanced down into the wide blue eyes and the freckled face. “Hi, podner! Is this your town?”

“Yup! My pa sank the first well ever dug in this county!”

“Rates him high in my book,” Bowdrie said. “Any man who brings water to a dry country deserves credit.”

“You stayin' in town?”

“For a little while, I guess. I've got to find the men who did this.” He paused. “It was a dirty deal, son, because there was another man in on this. He not only shot Banker Hayes in the back, he double-crossed his own pals.”

The boy nodded seriously. By his own standards as well as those of the country in which he lived, the two crimes were among the worst of which a man could be accused.

All was quiet at the jail when he arrived. The wounded outlaw was lying on his bunk staring at the ceiling. Reluctantly he sat up when Bowdrie came to the bars. “You should have killed me,” he said bitterly. “I ain't cut out for no prison. I'll die in there.”

“Maybe you won't have to go,” Bowdrie said.

“What's that?”

“If you can tell me who was in on this job, you might go free. Who was waiting inside the bank?”

“Huh?” The outlaw was obviously surprised. “Inside? Nobody. The boys went after Hayes. He opened the bank door.” He paused, frowning. “Come to think on it, the banker just walked in. The door was already unlocked. But how could anybody be inside?”

“You tell me.” Bowdrie studied the man. The outlaw was surprised and disturbed. “Who planned this job?”

“I dunno. They come to me an' asked if I'd like to go as horse-holder. I'd done a few things with one of those boys before, so I went along. We wasn't to use no names. Nobody was supposed to ask questions. Him who was killed inside, he was ridin' herd on us. He set this up if anybody did.”

“Where was the split to be made?”

“Well”—the outlaw hesitated—“it was to be made after. After we got away, I mean. Nothin' much was said about it. We done taken it for granted, like.”

“The man who was killed down by the store. Did you know him?”

“Seen him around. He was rounded up, just like me. Those boys had a job planned and they needed help. We wasn't any organized outfit, if that's what you mean.”

“Was there any talk about money?”

“Sure! That's why we done it. The big feller, the one who was killed inside, he said we'd make five hundred apiece from it, maybe more. That there's a lot of money for somebody like me. Hell, I on'y worked seven months last year, at thirty dollars a month. Stole a few head of stock here'n there, never made more than drinkin' money.”

Chick Bowdrie went back to his horse, and mounting, rode out of town. That he was being watched, he knew. Out of curiosity? Or fear? Suspicion was growing, centering around young Cane, who would inherit whatever the banker left.

Easy as that solution was, and Bowdrie could think of a half-dozen reasons for believing it, that simple answer left him uneasy and unconvinced. Riding out of town, he circled around until he could pick up the incoming trail of the four outlaws.

They could have reached town no more than fifteen minutes before he himself. That meant they must have been camped not too far from town, and might have been visited by whoever the inside man had been.

Slowly, a pattern was beginning to shape itself in Bowdrie's mind, although he was careful to remember it was no more than a possibility.

The inside man had known there was money in the bank and he had made contact with an outlaw, perhaps somebody he had known before. At his suggestion that outlaw had rounded up a few men to pull off the job. None of them were to know anything. If captured they would be unable to tell anything because they knew nothing.

It was early and nobody had come over the trail since the arrival of the outlaws. He picked up their trail without difficulty. They had made no effort to hide their tracks, until suddenly, by intent or accident, their trail merged with that of a herd of horses. He was more than two hours in working out their trail.

At first it held to dry washes and then wove through mesquite groves higher than the head of a man on horseback. Almost an hour of riding brought him to a campfire of ashes and a few partly burned sticks. He stirred the ashes and found no embers, but when he felt the ash with his fingers, there was still warmth.

Dividing the camp into quarters, he searched each section with meticulous care. They had eaten here, and they had drunk coffee. There had been four men who were joined by a fifth man who sat with them. This man had sat on the ground, one leg outstretched. His spur had gouged the sand and there were faint scratches near the upper part of the boot.

Studying the situation carefully, he then mounted and rode in careful circles, ever-widening, around the camp. He drew up suddenly. Here, behind a clump of mesquite, a man had crouched, spying on the outlaw camp. Bowdrie muttered irritably. The roan twitched an ear and Bowdrie glanced up. The horse was looking toward the trail with both ears pricked and his nostrils expanding. Speaking softly to the horse, Bowdrie waited, ready.

A rider pushed through the mesquite and came toward them at a fast trot, but his eyes were on the ground and did not see Bowdrie until he was quite near. He drew up sharply. It was Kent Friede.

“Find anything?” Was there an edge to his tone?

“Not much. They camped back yonder, an' they had a visitor.”

“Ah!” Friede nodded. “I suspected as much! Most likely Cane rode out here to give them information.”

“What makes you suspect Cane? Anybody might have done it.”

“Who else would gain by Hayes's death?”

Bowdrie shrugged, sitting easy on his horse. Something about Friede bothered him, and he decided he would not want to turn his back on him. It was just a feeling, and probably a foolish one. It was never wise to jump to conclusions. What he wanted was evidence.

“I've not met Cane. What's he like?”

“About twenty-five. Nice-looking man. He's been a cowhand, and he drove a freight wagon. Lately he's been working in a store.”

“How'd he come to be Hayes's heir?”

“Hayes cottoned to him from the first time they met, and now he's about to marry Hayes's daughter. He works part-time in the bank, with Hayes. After the bank closes, he goes over to the store.”

         

Jim Cane was in the Caprock Saloon with Hadley when they walked in. He was a rangy young man with dark red hair and a hard jaw. He looked more like a rider than a banker. Cane turned as they entered and his eyes slanted quickly from one to the other. Bowdrie felt his pulse skip a beat as he saw Cane. A few years had changed him a lot.

“Find anything?” Hadley asked. The sheriff was a stalwart man, a leather-hard face and cool, careful eyes. A good man to have on your side, a bad man to have on your trail.

“Not much.” Bowdrie explained about the campfire and the visitor. He did not mention the unseen watcher, nor what he had found near the campfire.

“All right to get back to business at the bank?” Cane asked. There was a shade of belligerence in his tone. “I've ranchers coming in for their payroll money.”