The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 1 (51 page)

“It was on a bayou, and was quite lovely. He didn't tell me much about it, but it seems there was a friend living there with him, a chap he had met in Mexico right before the war. They had both fought in revolutions down there, and had become friends.

“Dowd went to New Orleans on business, and while he was gone one of those riots broke out, and he was overdue in getting home. When he did get back, his sister had been murdered. From what he said it was pretty ugly.

“He found a button in her hand that had come off a coat this friend was wearing, and the friend was nowhere around. The house had been thoroughly looted. Three men who lived nearby swore they saw the friend riding away on a horse, and he was, they said, bloody as could be.

“Dowd started after his friend, and swore he would kill him on sight. The chase followed clear to Mexico, and Dowd lost him there, was nearly killed by some old enemies, and returned to Texas. That was when I met him.”

“He told me the friend was Finn Mahone,” she said.

Kastelle looked at her quickly. Her eyes were wide and she was staring out the door.

So that was it! He had noticed how different Remy had been acting of late, and had wondered about it. He recalled, then, how Remy had stood up for Mahone at the Cattleman's meeting.

“I didn't know.” Remy had grown up, he realized that with a pang. He had known she would, and had known that when she did, she would fall in love. Now it had to be with this man … a murderer.

“You've met Mahone?”

“Yes.” Without taking her eyes from the door, she told all that had transpired. He listened attentively, and realized when she had finished that his pipe had gone out. He refilled and lit it.

Kastelle stared at the floor. He never knew what to say at a time like this because there simply wasn't anything he could say. He raised his eyes to look at Remy, and found she was gone. She had walked out of the room and he had not noticed.

He got up and walked to the door. Remy was walking dejectedly toward the corrals. Kastelle shook his head, unaware of any way he could help her except to listen and try to be a strong and stable presence.

Two cowhands were sitting on the steps of the bunkhouse, and one of them had a rifle across his knees. Kastelle walked down to them. They grinned as he came up.

“Howdy!” Jody Carson said. “Dowd told us to stick around today.”

Kastelle nodded. He left the ranch business strictly up to the man from Texas. “Is he expecting trouble?”

“Yeah.” Carson leaned his elbows on the top step. “Pete was crossin' the Laird trail yesterday an' run into Nick James. Nick's headin' for the Notch. He's goin' to work for Mahone.”

“Mahone's hiring hands?”

“Uh-huh. Anyway, Nick said Mahone ran a blazer on Ringer Cobb in Ma Boyle's place an' made him back down. Story's all over town about Roberts tryin' to kill Dowd, too.”

“Where's Marshal Miller?”

“Over to the McInnis place, waitin' for Abe to talk, I reckon.” He sat up suddenly. “Hey! What's all this?”

They turned, and Kastelle's heart gave a leap. Texas Dowd was coming in with a body across a saddle. His face was hard. He reined in and swung down. “It's Dan Taggart,” he said, “killed down on our south range.”

Carson and Pete helped him remove the body from the saddle, and they looked at it. Kastelle's eyes hardened as he looked. He had known and liked Taggart, as these men had. The man was literally riddled with holes.

Dowd's face was grim when he looked up. “This is the beginning,” he said. “God knows where it'll end.” He looked at Jody. “You an' Pete stick right here. Don't you get off this place on no account. An' watch for that Rawhide bunch!”

Jody Carson had his own opinion of the men from Rawhide. That opinion had been bolstered by what he'd heard from Nick James. His eyes found Dowd's. “Nick told Pete that Taggart was sorry he voted for Sonntag. He wanted to do something about it powerful bad.”

“Maybe Sonntag done this?” Pete suggested.

Dowd shook his head. “No, this was more than one man. Sonntag wouldn't have wasted shots, either. I scouted around. There were three men, cutting north toward the Highbinders. Happened several hours ago, I reckon.”

Dowd stared at the bloody, shot-up body, and his lips tightened. Yet he was thinking now of Finn. If only Mahone were riding with him! These men … they meant well, and they would try, but in the end they were not hard enough, not fast enough. Byrn Sonntag was a bear with lightning in his hands, and he had men like Frank Salter and Montana Kerr riding with him.

Getting that bunch would be a job for men to do, not boys. He stood there, lonely and bitter, remembering the time in Mexico that he and Mahone had been informed by a soldier sent out from town that they must bring themselves to the commandant at once.

They were carrying ten thousand dollars in gold, their payment for fighting. They well knew what would happen to their ten thousand if it ever got in the clutches of that commandant. Mahone had looked up, and he had said in that easy, tough voice of his, “Tell the commandant that Finn Mahone an' Tex Dowd are ridin' down the main street of his town, an' if he wants us, or our gold, tell him to come an' get us!”

And an hour later, after a leisurely meal, they had mounted up and ridden through the little Mexican town … and there was not a soul in sight.

Dowd knew he had to kill Mahone. Whenever he thought of that brutal murder, a tide of fierce anger rose within him. Yet somehow, something held him back. It was not only that he had not had the chance to meet Mahone since that time, nor was it that there was no way across the slides. Something in him refused to admit that what had happened had happened.

The dust of the same roads had pounded into their faces, and the powder smoke of the same battles had burned their nostrils. He shook his head, and looked up. He turned then and walked into the bunkhouse.

Resolutely, he put aside all thought of Mahone. There was planning to be done.

He had, as it was a slack time, just four hands on the ranch. With the Negro cook, and Kastelle and himself, there were seven. The cook was a tough man and loyal, but he was as old as Frenchy Kastelle and not in as good shape.

What was coming now was open warfare. He knew without further evidence that this was the beginning. Or rather, Roberts's shot at him had been the beginning. Had Mahone not killed Mexie Roberts, Dowd would be dead now. Abe McInnis was in bed, seriously wounded. Taggart killed. On top of that, if they had killed Dowd the range would have been open to do what they pleased.

He got up and paced the floor. Desperately, he needed someone to side him. This was no longer a lone-wolf job. He couldn't be everywhere, and there was still Sonntag. He was out on the range somewhere, and wherever he was, death would soon follow. Texas Dowd knew without doubt that Sonntag would be gunning for him, and that meant he had to kill Sonntag.

It would settle nothing. Someone else was behind this, someone who had ordered his death.

Mahone?

Dowd shook his head. Finn would do his own killing. Suddenly, he remembered he had two men out on the range. They were riding alone … and the killers of Taggart had been headed north!

He lunged from the house and ran for his horse. “Stay here!” he yelled at the men by the bunkhouse. He hit the saddle and was gone.

Frenchy Kastelle walked back into the house. Coolly, he got down from their rack his new Winchester '73 and the Sharps .50. Then he checked their loads and put them within easy reach of his hand. He went into his bedroom and got his .44 and belted it on.

Kastelle snapped to with a start. Remy! Where was
she
? He turned and stepped to the door and saw Jody Carson staring out over the range. “Where's Remy?” he called.

Jody ran around the corner of the bunkhouse and stared at the corral. “Her mare's gone!” he yelled. “She must've headed out.”

Kastelle stood an instant in indecision. Carson's face was a picture of worry. “Gosh, Boss! I never give her a thought, we're so used to her comin' an' goin'!”

“I know,” he said. He held himself still and tried to think where she could have gone. Perhaps just for a ride, to ride away her own doubts and bitterness. If so, she might have gone in any direction. Kastelle stood there, his mind curiously alert. He tried to think of everything, tried to decide what was best to do. “We would be foolish to look for her,” he said finally. “We'll have to wait.”

“Well, nobody's goin' to come up to her on that mare. That Roxie can outrun anything on this range, unless it's that black of Mahone's.”

“Dowd's out now,” Carson said, “an' Bovetas an' Rifenbark are still out there. I reckon Dowd figgered they might run into them Rawhide hands that killed Taggart.”

Kastelle sat down on the porch, his Winchester close at his hand. Carson stood for a minute, waiting, then walked back to the bunkhouse. Pete Goodale looked up. “The boss wears those guns like he could use 'em,” he said. “Never seen him wear one before.”

The day drew along slowly, and the sun reached the meridian, then started its long slide toward the distant Rimrock, a high red bulwark against the green range.

 

Texas Dowd kept his horse at a canter to save it, and headed back up range. He saw few cattle, and this area had been covered with them a fortnight ago. His face drew down in hard lines. He had waited too long. He should have gone to Rawhide and killed Sonntag. If Sonntag was gone, the rest of them would fall apart … but again he recalled his belief that behind Sonntag was another, unknown person.

He was almost to the edge of the Highbinders when he heard a faint yell. He reined in his horse and shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun. Someone was waving a hat. He jacked a shell into the chamber of his Winchester and rode ahead, his eyes studying the ground. When he got a little closer, a man got up out of the grass. It was Rifenbark.

“What happened?” Rif 's head was bloody and he was limping.

“Three of them Rawhide hands. I seen 'em drivin' some cattle ahead, so I started down range. I was a ways off. Bovetas, he seen 'em before I did, an' he rode down on 'em.”

Rifenbark's eyes were bleak. “They never give him a chance. I seen it, an' I also seen I wasn't goin' to do much good agin' three of 'em on a hoss. I hit dirt, an' when they got close enough, I opened up with my rifle.

“Never did no good, though. Never even winged one. They just waved at me an' rode on, then two of 'em circled back, an' one got in this here shot that cut my scalp. I shot again, but didn't get neither one, although I burned 'em up some.”

“Where's your horse?”

“Yonder in them trees. I seen him movin' there a minute ago.”

Dowd wheeled his horse and started for the trees. He would get Rif mounted, and then they would cut along toward Brewster's. They might come up with the herd again.

 

Far away to the east, two separate riders were headed toward Brewster's as toward the apex of a triangle. One of these was Remy Kastelle; the other was Pierce Logan.

Pierce Logan rode rapidly. He was heading for Rawhide, and he had a few plans he wanted to put into execution, and he was looking for a man to replace Mex Roberts. Despite himself, he was worried. He could think of no particular reason why he should be, although he had planned to have Dowd out of the way before things came to a head.

He had chosen Roberts to kill Sonntag when the time came, and now that chance was gone. If Sonntag were to be killed, he must find someone else … or do it himself. It might come to that.

A vast impatience lay upon him. Cool planning had been his best hand, but now movement had taken the place of thinking. He knew and approved of what the Rawhide crowd were doing today. Before nightfall, fear would be alive on the range. As long as he had the chance to place the blame on Mahone or his “gang” it would be all right … but that was touch and go so far, because they had not had a chance to mix any altered brands into the cattle he was selling.

Pierce Logan had ridden out of town after his meeting with Dowd, and he had stayed the night in a line shack on Brewster's range. He would stay out of sight as much as possible. At all costs, he wished to avoid being forced to show his colors.

He reached the Brewster ranch to find the house in flames and the stock driven off. There was no sign of anyone around the place. Yet he had scarcely ridden into the yard when he heard a low moan. He swung his horse, and his pistol flashed into his hand.

The groan sounded again, and he swung down and walked toward the barn. It had been left standing due to the amount of feed stored there, and some valuable saddles. Logan had been cold-blooded about that. “Might as well keep it, Byrn,” he said dryly. “We can use that stuff, and the feed will be good for our horses.”

“Logan?” Pierce turned his head to the voice and saw a hand wave feebly from under a pile of sacking. “Help!” The voice was weak.

In two strides he was beside the sacking and jerked it back. Van Brewster, his shirt covered with blood, lay on the barn floor. His lids fluttered and he tried to speak again. Coolly, Logan lifted his pistol. They'd botched the job, but he might as well finish it.

Then he heard a horse's hooves. Wheeling, he saw Remy Kastelle ride into the ranch yard on her white mare. Thrusting his gun into the holster, he called to her. “Come here! Brewster's hurt!”

Remy dismounted and ran to him. He took her elbow and showed her the wounded man. Then, cursing under his breath, he picked up a bucket and went for water while she unfastened the man's rough shirt. Van Brewster was badly wounded, she could see that at a glance. If he lived it would be more luck than anything they could do. If only they had Doc Finerty!

“Logan … started …” Brewster's mutter faded, then his eyes opened again, “… shoot me,” he ended.