The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 2 (36 page)

Hawkins, evidently thinking of Chiquita, had held out the ring as a gift to her for favors he hoped to receive. Obviously he had not known of her commitment to Pablo.

Chick slipped the ring into his pocket. He must work fast now. He crossed the patio on the run. The blond newcomer was at the bar. He turned as Bowdrie entered.

“Rip! How many came with you?”

“Deming an' Armstrong. Ain't that enough?”

“Get 'em an' come on! I'm headed for the K-Bar. If there's a fight this time, it will be something to write your girl about, believe me.”

Once in the saddle, he let the roan have his head. The hammerhead outlaw knew when his master was in a hurry and he could set his own pace.

The K-Bar outfit might try to bluff it out or they might not even expect trouble. What he was hoping was that they would try to move the loot or get to where it was. The ranch itself was the logical place, of course, as it was one of the few places the mules could be taken without arousing suspicion or interest. Pack animals in such numbers do not just vanish from sight.

Rip Coker would be along with the two Rangers accompanying him. Bowdrie had spotted him the moment he entered the cantina, and realized McNelly had sent them along to help.

When he drew near the K-Bar he slowed the roan to a walk, keeping to the soft shoulder of the road, hoping a hoof would not strike stone. The other Rangers were not far behind, but speed was of first importance.

There was activity near a stack of hay, and some mules with packsaddles were being loaded. Three men were in sight as he approached, and he could hear cursing. There were lights on in the house. Was Katch involved, too? Or was it only the ranch hands?

Chick Bowdrie stepped down from his horse. “You stand,” he warned, “but if I yell, come a-runnin'.”

The roan was already dozing, accustomed to such moments but prepared to take what rest he could get.

The other Rangers closed in and Bowdrie explained what he had in mind and then moved off, stepping softly and hoping his spurs would not jingle.

When he reached the back of the well-house, he took a quick glance about, then walked across to the back door of the ranch house. He had been in the house too many times before not to know his way. He crossed the kitchen, hearing a murmur of voices from the living room.

Walking softly behind the chairs in the big dining room, he reached the door and paused to listen. The door stood open but he was well back and out of sight.

“Forget it, Cassidy!” Katch was saying. “You're jumpy! If Hawkins is dead, he can't talk. That fool Ranger will think one of his own shots killed him. He likes to believe he's good with a six-shooter.”

“Maybe you're right,” Cassidy replied doubtfully, “but maybe he knows too much. After all, he knew about Pirón. How could he find out about him?”

“Don't get the wind up,” Katch replied carelessly. “This is foolproof.”

Katch got up and stretched. In the dim light he looked enormous.

“I told the boys to load the stuff so's we could move it,” Cassidy said.

Katch brought his arms down slowly. “You
what
?” His tone was low but there was something so deadly in it that Bowdrie felt his scalp tighten.

“It seemed the thing to do. If they search the place, they'll find nothing.”

Katch's tone was mild. “Ferd, if they did search, they'd never think to look in that haystack. Besides, the Rangers know me. I'm their friend. If that loot starts paradin' around in the moonlight, somebody is sure enough goin' to see it.”

Cassidy had his hands flat on the table. “I'll go tell 'em to put it back,” he said. “I guess I acted too fast.”

“That's your trouble, Ferd. You're too jumpy. I don't like men who get jumpy, Ferd. You're a good man on a job, smooth as silk and cold as ice, but when we ain't workin' you're too easy to upset. Besides, I don't like men who give orders without consultin' me.”

“I'm right sorry,” Cassidy said. “You ain't mad, are you, boss?”

His features were sallow in the dim light, and suddenly Bowdrie knew what was about to happen. Big Tom Katch was playing with his lieutenant as a cat plays with a mouse. Katch knew that Cassidy was on edge. He led him on now, building him to a crisis.

“No, I'm not mad, Ferd. Not mad at all.” Katch smiled. “I just don't need you anymore, Ferd.”

The words fell softly in the room and for a moment there was utter silence as the words sank into Ferd Cassidy's brain. Realization hit him like a blow. His eyes seemed to flare and he went for his gun. And Tom Katch shot him.

He had held the gun at his side, turned half away, so Ferd Cassidy, expecting no trouble here, had not even noticed.

Bowdrie stepped softly into the room, so softly that Tom Katch did not hear it. The big man was staring at the dying Cassidy with amused contempt. Katch holstered his gun.

Then his eyes lifted and his peripheral vision seemed to catch a glimpse of Bowdrie. He turned his head.

Bowdrie saw the shock in Katch's eyes, then a slow smile. He had to admire the man, for it had taken only that instant to adjust to the changed situation.

“How are you, Chick? I've been havin' some trouble with my foreman, seems like. He and some of the boys been doin' some outside jobs I didn't know about.”

“I don't buy it, Katch. You can't lay it on them alone. You're the boss here. Yours is the brain. From the beginning I knew there was something I should remember. Something that hung in the back of my mind trying to be remembered.

“It didn't come to me until I saw that those handcuffs had been opened with a lock-pick. Then I realized who Cassidy was. When I knew who he was, I knew who you were.”

“Don't tell me I was on your Ranger list of wanted men. I never saw Texas until a few years back, and I've lived right here all that time.”

“What about Missouri, Tennessee, Ohio, and Nebraska? Four big jobs, four clean jobs, except for one thing. The gent that saw you on the platform at the railroad station in Dodge City.

“It just happened that a little fat drummer was standin' there who had known you in Memphis. Big Tom Caughter, the smartest crook of them all, the man who never left a witness and always got away with the loot. Ferd Cassidy was Lonnie Webb, a Kansas boy with a gift for picking locks, other people's locks.”

Katch was thinking. Bowdrie could almost see his mind working, and this was a shrewd, dangerous man. Always before he had gotten away with it. No trail, no witnesses, no evidence. Four big jobs, and this was to be the fifth.

Katch shrugged. “Well, I guess a man can't win 'em all. With the money I've got cached I can be out in a couple of years.”

“Sounds easy, doesn't it?” Bowdrie said. “But what about the killings?”

“You mean Zaparo? You can't prove I was there. As a matter of fact, I wasn't. Anyway, no jury is going to hang me for killing a few Mexican outlaws.”

“I wasn't thinking of Zaparo. I was thinking of Ferd Cassidy. That was a cold-blooded killing. I saw it.”

“Oh? So that's the way it is?” Katch eyed him with a steady, assured gaze. “Then we don't need a witness. When you die, who else will know?”

“The Rangers are outside waitin' for my signal,” Bowdrie said. “Your boys are already rounded up, and without a shot fired. I was waiting to hear, but there never was a one. Now I'll take you.”

Katch flashed a hand for his gun, incredibly fast, only Bowdrie was already shooting.

Coker stepped into the door. “Get 'em all?” Chick asked.

“Yeah.” He looked at the bodies. “Both of them yours?”

“Only the big one.” He looked at Katch and shook his head. “Rip, that man had brains, some education, and nerve. Why can't they ever realize they can't beat the law?”

South of Deadwood

The Cheyenne to Deadwood Stage was two hours late into Pole Creek Station, and George Gates, the driver, had tried to make up for lost time. Inside the coach the five passengers had been jounced up and down and side to side as the Concord thundered over the rough trail.

The girl with the golden hair and gray eyes who was sitting beside the somber young man in the black flat-crowned hat and black frock coat had been observing him surreptitiously all the way from Cheyenne.

He had a dark, Indian-like face with a deep, dimplelike scar under his cheekbone, and despite his inscrutable manner he was singularly attractive. Yet he had not spoken a word since leaving Cheyenne.

It was otherwise with the burly red-cheeked man with the walrus mustache. He had talked incessantly. His name, the girl had learned with no trouble at all, was Walter Luck.

“Luck's my name,” he stated, “and luck's what I got!”

The other blond was Kitty Austin, who ran a place of entertainment in Deadwood. Kitty was an artificial blond, overdressed and good-natured but thoroughly realistic in her approach to life and men. The fifth passenger had also been reticent, but it finally developed that his name was James J. Bridges.

“I want no trouble with you!” Luck bellowed. “I don't aim to cross no bridges!” And the coach rocked with his laughter.

The golden-haired girl's name, it developed, was Clare Marsden, but she said nothing of her purpose in going to Deadwood until Luck asked.

“You visitin' relatives, ma'am? Deadwood ain't no place for a girl alone.”

“No.” Her chin lifted a little, as if in defiance. “I am going to see a man. His name is Curly Starr.”

If she had struck them one simultaneous slap across their mouths they could have been no more startled. They gaped, their astonishment too real to be concealed. Luck was the first to snap out of it.

“Why, ma'am!” Luck protested. “Curly Starr's an outlaw! He's in jail now, just waitin' for the law from Texas to take him back! He's a killer, a horse thief, and a hold-up man!”

“I know it,” Clare said stubbornly. “But I've got to see him! He's the only one who can help me!”

She was suddenly aware that the dark young man beside her was looking at her for what she believed was the first time. He seemed about to speak when the stage rolled into the yard at Pole Creek Station and raced to a stop.

Peering out, they saw Fred Schwartz's sign—
CHOICEST WINE, LIQUOR, AND CIGARS
—as the man himself came out to greet the new arrivals.

The young man in the black hat was beside her. He removed his hat gracefully and asked, “If I may make so bold? Would you sit with me at supper?”

It was the first time he had spoken and his voice was low, agreeable, and went with his smile, which had genuine charm, but came suddenly and was gone.

“Why, yes. I would like that.”

Over their coffee, with not much time left, he said, “You spoke of seein' Curly Starr, ma'am? Do you know him?”

“No, I don't. Only …” She hesitated, and then as he waited, she added, “He knows my brother, and he could help if he would. My brother is in trouble and I don't believe he's guilty. I think Curly Starr does know who is.”

“I see. You think he might clear your brother?”

There was little about Curly Starr he did not know. Starr, along with Doc Bentley, Ernie Joslin, Tobe Storey, and a kid called Bill Cross had held up the Cattleman's Bank in Mustang, killing two men in the process. Billy Marsden, son of the owner of the Bar M Ranch, had been arrested and charged with the killing. It was claimed he was Bill Cross.

“I hope he will. I've come all the way from Texas just to talk to him.”

“They'll be takin' him back to Texas,” the young man suggested. “Couldn't you have waited?”

“I had to see him first! I've been told that awful gunfighting Ranger, Chick Bowdrie, is coming after him. He might kill Starr before he gets back to Texas.”

“Now I doubt that. I hear the Rangers never kill a man unless he's shootin' at them. Have you ever met this Bowdrie fellow?”

“No, but I've heard about him, and that's enough.”

Gates thrust his head in the door. “Time to mount up, folks! Got to roll if we aim to make Deadwood on time.”

Clare Marsden hurried outside and Walter Luck stepped up beside her.

“Seen you talkin' with that young feller in the black hat. Did he tell you his name?”

“Why, no,” she realized. “He did not mention it.”

“Seems odd,” Luck said as he seated himself. “We all told our names but him.”

Kitty Austin drew a cigar from her bag and put it in her mouth. “Not strange a-tall! Lots of folks don't care to tell their names. It's their own business!”

She glanced at Clare Marsden. “Hope you don't mind the smoke, ma'am. I sure miss a cigar if I don't have one after dinner. Some folks like to chaw, but I'm no hand for it, myself. That Calamity Jane, she chaws, but she's a rough woman. Drives an ox team an' cusses like she means it.”

Luck had a cigarette but he tossed it out of the window as the stage started.

The young man in the black hat reached into his pocket and withdrew a long envelope, taking from it a letter, which he glanced at briefly as they passed the last lighted window. He had turned the envelope to extract the letter, but not so swiftly that it missed the trained eye of Gentleman Jim Bridges. It was addressed,
Chick Bowdrie, Texas Rangers, El Paso, Texas
.

Bridges was a man who could draw three aces in succession and never turn a hair. He did not turn one now, although there was quick interest in his eyes. There was a glint in them as he glanced from Bowdrie to the girl and at last to Walter Luck.

“If you plan to see Starr, you'd better get at it,” Luck suggested. “Texas wants him back and I hear they're sendin' a man after him. They're sendin' that border gunfighter, Chick Bowdrie.”

“Never heard of him,” Bridges lied.

“He's good, they say. With a gun, I mean. Of course, he ain't in a class with Doc Bentley or Ernie Joslin. That says nothin' of Allison or Hickok.”

“That's what you say.” Kitty Austin took the cigar from her teeth. “Billy Brooks told me Bowdrie was pure-Dee poison. Luke Short said the same.”

“I ain't interested in such,” Luck replied. “Minin' is my game. Or mine stock. I buy stock on occasion when the prospects are good. I don't know nothin' about Texas. Never been south of Wichita.”

Bowdrie leaned back and relaxed his muscles to the movement of the stage. Clare Marsden aroused his sympathy as well as his curiosity, yet he knew that Billy Marsden was as good as convicted, and conviction meant hanging. Yet if his sister was right and Starr knew something that might clear him, he would at least have a fighting chance. How much of a chance would depend on what Starr had to say, if anything. The court would not lightly accept the word of an outlaw trying to clear one of his own outfit.

If he had even a spark of the courage it took to send his sister rolling over a thousand miles of rough roads, he might yet make something of himself.

Chick had himself made a start down the wrong road before McNelly recruited him for the Rangers. It had been to avenge a friend that he had joined the Rangers. It led to the extinction of the Ballard gang and the beginning of his own reputation along the border. Yet since he had ridden into that lonely ranch in Texas, badly wounded and almost helpless, he had never drawn a gun except on the side of the law.

It was easy enough for even the best of young men to take the wrong turning when every man carried a gun and when an excess of high spirits could lead to trouble. Chick Bowdrie made a sudden resolution. If there was the faintest chance for Billy Marsden, he would lend a hand.

Dealing with Curly Starr would not be simple. Curly was a hard case. He had killed nine or ten men, had rustled a lot of stock, stood up a few stages, and robbed banks. Yet so far as Bowdrie was aware, there were no killings on Starr's record where the other man did not have an even break. According to the customs of the country that spoke well for the man.

When the stage rolled to a stop before the IXL Hotel & Dining Room in Deadwood, a plan was shaping in Bowdrie's mind. He was the last one to descend from the stage and his eyes took in an unshaven man in miner's clothing who lounged against the wall of the IXL, a man who muttered something under his breath as Luck passed him.

Stooping, Bowdrie picked up Clare's valise with his left hand and carried it into the hotel. She turned, smiling brightly. “Thank you so much! You didn't tell me your name?”

“Bowdrie, ma'am. I'm Chick Bowdrie.”

Her eyes were startled, and she went white to the lips. He stepped back, embarrassed. “If there's any way I can help, you've only to ask. I'll be stayin' in the hotel.”

He turned quickly away, leaving her staring after him.

Bowdrie did not wait to see what she would do or say, nor did he check in at the hotel. He had sent word to Seth Bullock, and knew the sheriff would have made arrangements. He headed for the jail.

Curly Starr was lounging on his cot when Bowdrie walked up to the bars. “Howdy, Starr! Comfortable?”

Starr glanced up, then slowly swung his feet to the floor. “Bowdrie, is it? Looks like they sent the king bee.”

Bowdrie shook his head. “No, that would be Gillette or Armstrong. One of the others.

“Anyway, I've a lot of work to do when I get you back, Curly. There's Bentley, Joslin, Tobe Storey to round up.” And then he added, “We've got the kid.”

Starr came to the bars. “Got any smokin'?”

Bowdrie tossed him a tobacco sack and some papers. “Keep 'em,” he said.

“Curly,” he said as Starr rolled his smoke, “the kid's going to get hung unless something turns up to help him.”

“Tough.” Curly touched his tongue to the paper. “We can go out together, if you get me back to Texas.”

“I'll get you back, settin' a saddle or across one, but that kid's pretty young to die. If you know anything that would help, tell me.”

“Help?” Starr chuckled. He was a big, brawny young man with a hard, square brown face and tight dark curls. “You're the law, Bowdrie. You'd hang a man, but I doubt if you'd help one.”

“He's a kid. I'd give any man a break.”

“He was old enough to pack a gun. In this life a man straddles his own horses and buries his dead. Nobody is lookin' for any outs for me. Besides, how do I know you ain't diggin' for evidence against the kid? Or all of us?”

Despite himself Bowdrie was disturbed as he walked back to the IXL. He was positive the man Luck had spoken to was Tobe Storey. He had had only a glimpse, but the man's jawline was familiar, and the Pecos gunman could have ridden this way.

What if they had all ridden this way? What if they planned a jailbreak? Curly Starr was the leader of the outfit and they had ridden together for a long time.

Later, in the dining room of the IXL, he loitered over his coffee. Deadwood was wide open and booming. Named for the dead trees along a hillside above the town, it was really a succession of towns in scattered valleys in the vicinity.

The Big Horn Store, the Gem Theater, the Bella Union Variety Theater, run by Jack Langrishe, and the Number Ten Saloon all were busy, crowded most of the time.

After leaving the jail, Bowdrie had drifted in and out of most of the places, alert for any of the Starr outfit. Now he sat over coffee for the same purpose, waiting, watching.

The door opened and Seth Bullock appeared. With him was Clare Marsden. As her eyes met Bowdrie's, she flushed. Bowdrie arose as they came to the table.

“Bowdrie, this young lady wants to talk to Curly Starr. I told her Starr was your prisoner and she would have to ask you.”

“She can talk to him,” Bowdrie replied. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed a man standing just inside the saloon, looking into the dining room. It was the man he believed was Tobe Storey.

“Tonight?” Clare asked.

Bowdrie hesitated. It was foolhardy to open the jail now unless necessary, but …

“All right. I'll go along.”

As she turned toward the door, he hesitated long enough to whisper to Seth Bullock, “Tobe Storey's in town, and maybe the rest of that Starr outfit.”

She walked along beside him without speaking, until suddenly she looked up at him. “I suppose you think I am a fool to come all this distance to help a man who is as good as convicted, even if he is my brother.”

“No, ma'am, I don't. If you think there's a chance for him, you'd be a fool not to try, but if you've any reason for believing your brother wasn't involved, why not tell me?”

“But you're a
Ranger
!” The way she said it, the term sounded like an epithet.

“All the more reason. You've got us wrong, ma'am. Rangers don't like to jail folks unless they've been askin' for it. Out on the edge of things like this, if there weren't any Rangers there'd be no place for people like you.

“If your brother took money with a pistol, he's a thief and a dangerous man, and if he killed or had a part in killing an innocent man, he should hang for it.

“If he didn't, then he should go free, and if Starr has evidence that he's innocent, I'll do my best to clear him.”

They turned a corner but a sudden movement in the shadows and the rattle of a stone caused Chick Bowdrie to swing aside, brushing Clare Marsden back with a sweep of his arm.

A gun flamed from the shadows and a bullet tugged at his shoulder. Only his sudden move had saved them, but his gun bellowed a reply.

He ran to the mouth of the alley, then stopped. It led into a maze of shacks, barns, and corrals, and there was nobody in sight. The ambusher was gone.

He walked back to Clare. She stared at him, pale and shocked. “That man tried to kill you!” she protested.