The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 1 (54 page)

“Logan, was it?” Collins avoided looking at Powis, and although he was disgusted with himself for it, he felt a little glow of satisfaction that Powis was there to hear it, for the man's abject worship of authority and the power of Pierce Logan had always irritated him.

“Seen the Rawhide bunch?”

“Alcorn's dead. So is Ike Hibby. They attacked Dowd at Brewster's place. The rest of them are off on the range, somewhere.”

“You won't have to worry about Rawhide,” Texas drawled. “It ain't there anymore.”

The door pushed open suddenly, and Nick James came in. He glanced quickly from Dowd to Mahone. “Finn,” he said quickly, “Pierce Logan's stayed close to his place all night. He's getting ready to come out.”

“Thanks.” Mahone glanced over at Texas Dowd. “All right,” he said, “are you going to take him or am I?”

Dowd turned. “I am.”

Powis put his cup down. It rattled nervously in his saucer. He pushed back in his chair and cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, simulating heartiness, “time I got to work.”

“Sit down, Powis.” Gardner Collins looked less the judge and more the cowhand and cattleman at that moment. “You stay right here. Dowd will tell Logan he wants him.”

Texas turned his eyes toward the barber, and the man's face paled. Finn lifted his cup. “He's a friend of Logan's?”

“Sort of,” Collins agreed. “Seems to think he's king.”

“Well,” Finn said, “times are changing around here.” He put his cup down. “Powis, Red Eason is headin' for California and expects to make a lot of distance before sundown. He might like a traveling companion.”

The barber stared from one to the other. “But my business!” he protested. “Everything I've got is here!”

Finn Mahone looked at him levelly. “You don't need anything you can't carry. Start traveling.”

Nick James had been standing by the window, holding the cup of coffee he had poured. “Logan just came out,” he said.

Dowd finished his cup, and got to his feet. “Ma,” he said, “that sure is good coffee.” The sound of his boot heels echoed on the floor.

They sat very still, and the slam of the screen door made them all jump a little.

 

Pierce Logan was crossing the street to Ma Boyle's when a door slammed, and he looked up. Texas Dowd, tall in his blue jeans and gray shirt, was standing on the step in front of Ma Boyle's. Instantly, Logan was apprehensive, for there was something in Dowd's whole appearance that warned him of trouble.

As he stood there on the step before his office, looking diagonally across the street at Texas Dowd, a peculiar awareness of life came over him. Somehow, he had never seemed to think of the sun's easy warmth, the gray dust in the street, the worn, sun-warped, and wind-battered frame buildings. He had never thought much of the signs along the streets of Laird, their paint cracked and old. Now, he seemed aware of them all, but mostly he was aware of the tall, still figure standing over there, looking up the street at him.

Then, the feeling passed. After all, there was no way his part in all this could be known. He was simply getting jumpy, that was all. He was being foolish. After he had his morning coffee, he would feel better. Why should just the appearance of Dowd startle him so?

“Cashman!”

The voice rang like a great bell in the silent, empty street, and Logan jerked as though stabbed.

“Cashman! Start remembering before I kill you! Start remembering a girl on a plantation in Louisiana! That girl was my sister!”

Pierce Logan stood very still. This alone he had not expected. This past was over. It was gone. That girl … Dowd's
sister
? He shook his head suddenly, remembering that awful, bloody afternoon. His lips tightened and a kind of panic came over him, but he stiffened suddenly. That finished it, then. It finished it all, unless he could kill Dowd. His hand flashed for a gun and he drew in a single, sweeping movement, and fired as his gun came level.

His face gray, he crouched in the street, knowing he had missed, and the tall Texan in the gray shirt walked toward him, his long lantern jaw and his face very still, only his cold gray eyes level and hard. In a surge of panic, Logan fired two quick shots. One of them kicked up dust at Dowd's feet, and the other plucked at his sleeve.

Texas Dowd stopped, no more than a dozen feet away, and fired. The sound of his gun was like the roll of a drum, and at each shot, Logan jerked as if struck by a fist. Then, slowly, he sank to the dust, the pistol dribbling from his fingers.

Feeding shells into his gun, Texas Dowd backed slowly away from the fallen man, then turned and walked back to Ma Boyle's. Judge Gardner Collins cleared his throat as Dowd came in, and Finn Mahone poured a fresh cup of coffee. At no time had he risen from the table. He didn't have to. He knew Dowd.

CHAPTER 8

Finn Mahone and Texas Dowd reached the Lazy K, riding slowly for the last few miles. Both men rode with rifles ready, uncertain as to whether they would find the ranch safe, or besieged. As they drew near, the two men let a gap widen between them and rode warily up to the ranch. Jody Carson was the first person they saw.

“Howdy,” he said, grinning at them. “You two missed the fun.”

“We had some our ownselves. What happened here?”

“That Rawhide bunch bit off more'n they could chew. Montana Kerr, Ringer Cobb, Banty Hull, and Leibman rode in here this mornin' about sunup. They were loaded for bear an' looked plumb salty, an' I reckon they was.”

“Was?”

“That's what I said.” Jody put a hand on Finn's saddle horn. “You know, I never rightly had the boss figured. He lazed around up there to the house, takin' it easy, an' lettin' Texas here an' Remy run the whole shebang, but when we heard the place was liable to be attacked, he r'ared up on his hind legs, strapped on some guns, an' then he told us what was what.

“Well, sir! You should have seen them hardcases. They rode in here big as life an' tough as all get-out. You could see it stickin' out all over them. They was just a-takin' this here spread over, an' right now. Dowd was gone, an' he was the salty one of the crowd, they reckoned. Well, I reckoned so, too.

“When they rode up they swung down and started for the house, but the boss, he stepped out on the porch. ‘Howdy, boys,' he says, big as life an' slick as a whistle, ‘lookin' for somethin'?'

“ ‘Well, I reckon!' Kerr tells him, ‘we've come to take over this here place, an' if you don't want no trouble, you stay the hell out of the way!'

“ ‘But s'posin' I want trouble?' the boss says, an' he says it so nice that they don't take him very serious.

“ ‘Don't you be foolish,' Kerr says, ‘you can come out of this alive if you're smart!'

“ ‘That's what I was fixin' to tell you,' Kastelle says, ‘you boys crawl back in those saddles an' light out of here, an' you can go your way. We'll just make like it never happened,' he says.

“Montana, he still can't figure Frenchy Kastelle makin' any fuss. Never guessed he was the fightin' type. He starts to say somethin' when Cobb opens his big face. ‘Let's get 'em, Monty. Why stand here palaverin'?' Then he went for his gun.…

“It was a bad thing to do, Tex. Too bad them boys couldn't have lived long enough to know their mistake. I tell you, we had our orders, an' we were a-layin' there all set with our rifles an' shotguns. There was Pete, Rif, Wash, an' me, with Remy up to the house. Cobb, he reached, but he was a mite slow. The boss shot him so fast I didn't even know what happened. He'd told us aforetime. He says, ‘If they ride off, let 'em go. If they fire one shot … wipe 'em out!'

“Mister, we wiped 'em! When Cobb went for his gun, the boss drilled him, an' then the whole passel of ours cut loose on 'em an' I don't think they ever knowed what hit 'em. They must have figured we was either gone, or so skeered we wouldn't fight none.

“Pete, he and Rif are out back now, diggin' graves for the lot of them.”

“Anybody hurt?”

Jody chuckled. “Nary a one! They never had a chance! Hell, if this don't scare all the outlaws out of Laird Valley, they just ain't the smart folks we figure 'em for.”

He looked up at Finn, then at Tex. “What happened to you-all?”

Dowd explained briefly about the fight at the Brewster ranch, the killing of Alcorn and Hibby, and the subsequent raid upon Rawhide and how it had been left in flames. Mahone went on from there to tell about the killing of Pierce Logan, and how Eason and Powis had left town.

Carson chuckled. “Well, now! Ain't that somethin'? This will sure make believers out of those bad hombres! This will be a place to leave alone!” Suddenly, he frowned. “What about Sonntag?”

Mahone shrugged. “Neither Sonntag nor Frank Salter have shown up. Sonntag is plenty bad, and Salter is a fit partner for him. The two of them are poison, and while they may have left the range, I doubt it. They'll stick around.”

Finn Mahone's eyes had been straying toward the ranch house. Finally, he shoved his hat back on his head, and his face flushed as he suggested, “I expect I'd better go up and tell Frenchy what happened.”

Dowd chuckled. “Sure. You might tell Remy, too!”

As Finn trotted the stallion toward the house, he heard them both laughing at him, and he grinned in spite of himself.

Remy Kastelle came out the door as he mounted the steps. “Finn! Oh, it's you! And Tex is back! What happened?”

Frenchy had come into the doorway behind her, and Mahone explained the situation as quickly as possible.

It was Remy who repeated the question. “What about Sonntag?”

“Neither he nor Salter have been heard from, but they may show up yet. I've got to get back to my place and move some cattle. Ed Wheeling over at Rico wants to buy some stock from me.”

Hours later, on the road back to Crystal Valley, Finn Mahone rode swiftly. Nick James had left that morning and was to meet him at the Notch, and they would go on to the valley together. With James and Shoshone Charlie, he could manage the drive all right. Dowd had offered him a hand, but Mahone refused.

He said nothing to them of his worries, but he had his own ideas about what had become of Byrn Sonntag. The big redheaded gunman was probably in Rico. It would be like him to go there, for he knew the place and they knew him. Jim Hoff, the buyer of stolen cattle, was there; Sonntag would need money and he could sell some of the rustled cattle to Hoff.

 

The following day, Finn Mahone pushed his own herd of cattle through the upper canyon of the Laird. He had his sale to make, and he had the sense that the last act of the Laird Valley cattle war was going to play itself out in Rico.

Finn knew there would be rustling and robbery in the Laird Valley as long as Byrn Sonntag and Frank Salter were at large. Now that he was no longer being set up to be a scapegoat, the rustlers would have no compunction about taking his cattle along with those of everyone else. Texas Dowd had said little, but Mahone knew that he felt the same.

Nick James rode by. Mopping sweat and dust from his brow, he grinned at Mahone. The white-faced cattle moved briskly ahead, bawling and frisking, occasionally stopping to crop disinterestedly at the sparse desert growth. Soon they were mounting the trail to the plateau on which Rico stood.

The scattered shacks that lay around Rico appeared, and then the stockyards. A couple of hands rode up and helped them to corral the stock. Finn left Shoshone Charlie and Nick James to drown their thirst, and headed for the Gold Spike to see Wheeling.

When the stock buyer saw him, he almost dropped his glass. “Mahone, you'd better be careful. Sonntag is in town selling cattle. If he sees you around, he'll think you've come after him.”

“I wouldn't want to disappoint the man,” Mahone commented, grimly.

“Well, that Salter is with him, and he's mean as a burro jack and that isn't all! Frenchy Kastelle hit town about noon, rode over from the ranch with his daughter and Texas Dowd. They're trying to figure out where their missing stock got to. Jim Hoff saw them, and I know he's said something to Sonntag.”

Finn Mahone thought quickly. Byrn Sonntag would be trying to cash in on Logan's rustling scheme. He and Salter had hundreds, if not thousands, of stolen cattle to sell and that meant the stakes were high enough to kill for. If the Kastelle outfit was in town asking questions, there was a good chance they would run afoul of Sonntag and Salter. No doubt Remy's father was as fast as Carson had assured them, and surely Texas Dowd was as tough as they came, but in a match with a gunman of Sonntag's caliber anyone involved was bound to get hurt.

Mahone turned and walked swiftly to the door. He glanced sharply up and down the street, then pushed outside. Almost the first man he saw was Jim Hoff. The fat, sloppy buyer was coming up the boardwalk toward him, but when he saw Finn, he started to cross the street. “Hoff ! Hold on a minute!”

Reluctantly, the man stopped, staring uneasily at Finn. “Where's Sonntag? Tell me, and quick!”

“I don't know,” Hoff protested.

Mahone did not wait. He slapped the buyer of stolen stock across the mouth, hard enough to rattle his teeth. “Next time you get a pistol barrel! Where is he?”

“Down to his shack! An' I hope he kills you!” Hoff pointed farther down the street to a tarpaper cabin half concealed by brush.

Shoshone Charlie had come out of the saloon. “Charlie,” Finn said, “keep your eye on this hombre. If he makes a move toward a gun or to communicate with anybody, skin him alive.”

The Indian moved nearer Hoff, and the cattle buyer backed away. The Indian might not be young, but he was wiry and tough, and his knife was good steel.

Nick James moved up. “What is it, Boss?”

“Sonntag and me, when I find him!”