Novel 1957 - The Tall Stranger Page 10

  He walked to the door and went out. She saw him stop by the corral and pick up a rope, then go to the corral for the steel-dust. Running from the house, she threw herself into the saddle of her own black mare, tied at the corner of the house, and spurring to top speed, sprang out on the long ride across the valley.

  Rock Bannon did not look up, nor turn his head, but in his heart and mind the hard hoofs pounded like the pulse in his veins, pounded harder and harder, then vanished with the dying sound of the running horse.

  He saddled the gray, and as Bat Chavez walked from the house, Rock swung into the saddle. “Dave!” he yelled at the cook. “You watch over Hardy. We won’t be gone long.”

  Abruptly, he swung the stallion south. Chavez rode beside him, glancing from time to time at Rock. Finally, he burst out, “Bannon, I think that gal’s on the level. I sure do!”

  “Yes?” Rock did not turn his head. “You let me worry about that!”

  Chapter 8

  *

  PIKE PURCELL WAS a grim and lonely man. He had been loitering all day around the saloon. Only that morning, before riding away to the attack on the Bishop ranch house in which he and Lamport had taken part, Dud Kitchen had told him about the bullet that killed Collins.

  Pike was disturbed. His heart had not been in the fight at the ranch, and he had fired few shots. In fact, he and Lamport had been among the first to turn away from the fight. Purcell was thoroughly disillusioned in Mort Harper. The attack on the ranch had been poorly conceived and even more poorly carried out. Purcell didn’t fancy himself as a leader, but he knew he could have done better.

  Men had died back there—too many of them. Pike Purcell had a one-track mind and that one track was busy with surmises over the story told him by Dud. He could verify the truth of the supposition. Mort Harper had been behind Collins. It worried him, and his loyalty, already shaken by inadequate leadership, found itself on uncertain ground.

  On the ride back, there had been little talk. The party was sullen and angry. Their attack had failed under the straight shooting of Bishop and Bannon. They were leaving six men behind, six men who were stone dead. Maybe they had killed two, but that didn’t compensate for six. Bishop was down, but how badly none of them knew.

  Cap Mulholland had ridden in the attack as well. Never strongly inclined toward fighting, he had no heart in this fight. He had even less now. Suddenly he was realizing with bitterness that he didn’t care if he ever saw Mort Harper again.

  “They’ll be comin’ for us now,” Cap said.

  “Shut up!” Lamport snapped. He was angry and filled with bitterness. He was the only one of the settlers who had thrown in completely with Harper’s crowd, and the foolishness of it was now apparent. Defeat and their own doubts were carrying on the rapid disintegration of the Harper forces. “You see what I saw?” he demanded. “That Crockett girl was there. She was the one dragged Bishop’s body back. I seen her!”

  Harper’s head jerked up. “You lie!” he snapped viciously.

  Lamport looked across at Harper. “Mort,” he said evenly, “don’t you tell me I lie.”

  Harper shrugged. “All right, maybe she was there, but I’ve got to see it to believe it. How could she have beaten us to it?”

  “How did Bannon beat us back?” Lamport demanded furiously. “He was supposed to be lost in the hills.”

  “He must have come back over the mountain,” Gettes put in. He was one of the original Harper crowd. “He must have found a way through.”

  “Bosh!” Harper spat. “Nothing human could have crossed that mountain last night. A man would be insane to try it.”

  “Well,” Pike said grimly, “Bannon got there. I know good and well he never rode none of those canyons last night, so he must’ve come over the mountain. If any man could, he could.”

  Harper’s eyes were hard. “You seem to think a lot of him,” he sneered.

  “I hate him,” Pike snapped harshly. “I hate every step he takes, but he’s all man!”

  Mort Harper’s face was cruel as he stared at Pike. Purcell had ridden on, unnoticing.

  Pike did not return to his cabin after they reached Poplar. Pike Purcell was as just as he was ignorant and opinionated. His one quality was loyalty—that and more than his share of courage. Dud Kitchen’s story kept cropping up. Did Harper own a small gun?

  Suddenly, he remembered. Shortly after they arrived at Poplar he had seen such a gun. It was a .34 Patterson, and Mort Harper had left it lying on his bed.

  Harper was gone somewhere. The saloon was empty. Purcell stepped in, glanced around, then walked back to Harper’s quarters. The room was neat, and things were carefully arranged. He glanced around, crossed to a rough wooden box on the far side of the room, and lifted the lid. There were several boxes of .44’s, and a smaller box. Opening it, he saw a series of neat rows of .34-caliber cartridges, and across the lead nose of each shell was a deep notch!

  He picked up one of the shells and stepped back. His face was gray as he turned toward the door. He was just stepping through when Mort Harper came into the saloon.

  Quick suspicion came into Mort’s eyes. “What are you doin’ in there?” he demanded.

  “Huntin’ for polecat tracks,” Purcell said viciously. “I found ’em!” He took the shell out and tossed it on the table. It was the wrong move, for it left his right hand outstretched and far from his gun.

  At such a time things happen instantaneously. Mort Harper’s hand flashed for his gun, and Purcell was far too late. He got his hand on the butt when the bullet struck him. He staggered back, hate blazing in his eyes, and sat down hard. He tugged at his gun, and Harper shot him again.

  Staring down at the body of the tall old mountaineer, Mort Harper saw the end of everything. So this was how things finished? An end to dreams, an end to ambition. He would never own the greatest cattle empire in the West, a place where he would be a king on his own range with nothing to control his actions but his own will.

  He had despised Purcell for his foolishness in following him. He had led the settlers like sheep, but now they would survive and he would die. In a matter of hours, even minutes, perhaps, Bannon would be here, and then nothing would be left but a ruin.

  At that moment he heard a pounding of horse’s hoofs and looked up to see Sharon go flying past on her black mare.

  There was something left. There was Sharon. Rock Bannon wanted her. Sudden resolution flooded him. She was one thing Bannon wouldn’t get! Mort Harper ran to his quarters and threw a few things together, then walked out. Hastily, under cover of the pole barn, he saddled a fresh horse, loaded his gear aboard, and swung into the saddle and started up the canyon toward the Crockett home.

  Cap Mulholland watched him go, unaware of what was happening. Dud Kitchen had heard the shots, and had returned for his own guns. He watched Harper stop at the Crockett place, unaware of the stuffed saddlebags. When he saw the man swing down, he was not surprised.

  Sharon had caught Jim Satterfield in the open and told him they should flee the village at once. At this moment Satterfield was headed for the Pagones house as fast as he could move. Sharon ran into the house, looking for her father, but he was in the fields. There was not a moment to lose. She ran out, and was just swinging into the saddle when Mort Harper dismounted at the front steps. He heard her speak to the horse, and stepped around the house.

  “Sharon!” he said. “You’re just in time.”

  She halted. “What do you mean?” she demanded coolly.

  He rushed to her excitedly. “We’re leaving! We must get away now. Just you and me! The Bishop crowd will be coming soon, and they’ll leave nothing here. We still have time to get away.”

  “I’m going to get my father now,” she said. “Then we’ll go to the hills.”

  “There’s no time for that—he’ll get along. You come with me!” Harper was excited, and he did not see the danger lights in Sharon’s eyes.

  “Go where?” she inquired.

  Mort Ha
rper stared at her impatiently. “Away! Anywhere, for the time being. Later we can go on to California together, and—”

  “Aren’t you taking too much for granted!” She reached for the black mare’s bridle. “I’m not going with you, Mort. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  It was a real shock. He stared at her, unbelieving and impatient. “Don’t be foolish!” he snapped. “There’s nothing for you here. You were practically promised to me. If it’s marriage you want, don’t worry about that. We can go on to California, and be married there.”

  “It is marriage I want, Mort, but not to you. Never to you. For a little while I was as bad as the others. I believed in you, and then I saw the kind of men you had around you, how you’d deliberately led us here to use us for your own ends. No, Mort. I’m not marrying you and I’m not going away with you.” She made no attempt to veil the contempt in her voice. “If you’re afraid, you’d better get started. I’m going for my father.”

  Suddenly he was calm, dangerously calm. “So? It’s that Rock Bannon, is it? I never thought you’d take that ignorant cowhand seriously. Or,” he sneered, “is it your way of getting Bishop’s Valley?”

  “Get out!” she said. “Get out now! Dad and Pagones will be here in a moment and when I tell them what you’ve said, they’ll kill you.”

  “Kill me? Those two?” He laughed. Then his face stiffened. “All right, I’ll get out, but you’re coming with me!”

  He moved so swiftly she had no chance to defend herself. He stepped toward her suddenly, and she saw his fist start. The shock of the blow was scarcely greater than the shock of the fact that he had struck her. Dimly, she realized he had thrown her into the saddle and was lashing her there. She thought she struggled, but she lived those moments only in a half-world of consciousness, a half-world soon pounded into oblivion by the drum of racing horses.

  It was Satterfield who finally got Crockett from the fields. The Bishop riders were already in sight when Tom raced into his house, caught up his rifle, and called for Sharon. She was gone, and he noted that her black mare was gone. She was away, that was the main thing. With Jim, he ran out into the field where he was joined by Pagones, his wife, daughter and Dud Kitchen.

  The others were coming. It was a flight, and there was no time to prepare or take anything but what lay at hand. Cap Mulholland, his face sullen, went with them, his wife beside him. The Olsens and Greenes joined them, and in a compact group they turned away toward the timber along the hillside.

  Lamport did not go. He had no idea that Mort Harper was gone. John Kies was in his store, waiting the uncertain turn of events. Kies had worked with Mort before, and he trusted the younger man’s skill and judgment.

  It was over. It was finished. Lamport stared cynically at the long buildings of the town. Probably it was just as well, for he would do better in the gold fields. Steady day-to-day work had never appealed to him. Pike Purcell had been an honest but misguided man; Lamport was neither. From the first he had sensed the crooked grain in the timber of Mort Harper, but he didn’t care.

  Lamport felt that he was self-sufficient. He would stay in as long as the profits looked good, and he would get out when the luck turned against them. He had seen the brilliant conception of theft that had flowered in the brain of Mort Harper. He saw what owning that valley could mean.

  It was over. He had lived and worked with Purcell, but he had no regret for the man. Long ago he had sensed that Harper would kill him some day. Of all the settlers, Lamport was the only one who had read Harper right, and perhaps because they were of the same feeling.

  Yet there was a difference. Lamport’s hate was a tangible, deadly thing. Harper could hate and he could fight, but Harper was completely involved with himself. He could plot, wait, and strike like a rattler. Lamport had courage with his hate, and that was why he was not running now. He was waiting, waiting in the full knowledge of what he faced.

  His hate for Rock Bannon had begun when Bannon rode so much with Sharon. It had persisted, developing from something much deeper than any rivalry over a woman. It developed from the innate, basic rivalry of two strong men, two fighting men, each of whom recognizes in the other a worthy and dangerous foe.

  Lamport had always understood Harper. Of all those who had surrounded him, Lamport was the only one Mort Harper had feared. Pete Zapata he had always believed he could kill. Lamport was the one man with whom he avoided trouble. He even avoided conversation with him when possible. He knew Lamport was dangerous, and he knew he would face him down if it came to that.

  He was a big man, as tall as Rock Bannon, and twenty pounds heavier. When he walked his head thrust forward somewhat and he stared at the world from pale blue eyes beneath projecting shelves of beetling brows. In his great shoulders there was a massive, slumbering power. Lamport’s strength had long since made him contemptuous of other men, and his natural skill with a gun had added to that contempt. He was a man as brutal as his heavy jaw, as fierce as the light in his pale eyes.

  Surly and sullen, he made friends with no one. In the biting envy and cantankerousness of Pike Purcell he had found companionship, if no more. Lamport was not a loyal man. Purcell’s death meant nothing to him. He waited for Rock Bannon, now filled with hatred for the victor in the fight, the man who would win.

  Thinking back now, Lamport could see that Rock had always held the winning hand. He had known about Bishop, was kin to him, had known what awaited here. Also, from the start his assay of Harper’s character had been correct.

  From the beginning, Lamport had accepted the partnership with Purcell, rode with the wagon train because it was a way west, and threw in with Harper for profit. In it all, he respected but one man, the man he was now waiting to kill.

  When, in the deserted bar, he heard the horses coming, he poured another drink. Somewhere, there were three or four more men. The rest had vanished like snow in a desert sun. Hitching his guns into place, he walked to the door and out on the plank porch.

  John Kies’s white face stared at him from an open window of the store.

  “Where’s Mort?” Kies asked. “That’s them coming now.

  Lamport chuckled and spat into the dust. He scratched the stubble on his heavy jaw and grinned sardonically at Kies.

  “He’s around, I reckon, or maybe he blowed out. The rest of ’em have.”

  Stark fear came into the storekeeper’s face. “No! No, they can’t have!” he protested. “They’ll have an ambush! They’ll—”

  “You’re crazy!” Lamport sneered. “This show is busted. You know that. That’s Bannon comin’ now, and when that crowd of his gets through, there won’t be one stick on another in this town.”

  “But the settlers!” Kies wailed. “They’ll stop him.”

  Lamport grinned at him. “The settlers have took to the hills. They’re gone! Me, I’m waitin’ to kill Rock Bannon. Then if I can fight off his boys, I’m goin’.”

  They came up the street, walking their horses. Rock was in the lead, his rifle across his saddlebow. To his right was Bat Chavez, battle-hungry as always. To his left was Red, riding loosely on a paint pony. Behind them, in a mounted skirmishing line, came a dozen hard-bitten Indian-fighting plainsmen, riders for the first big cow spread north of Texas.

  A rifle shot rang out suddenly from a cabin in back of the store. Then another. A horse staggered and went down, and Bat Chavez wheeled his horse, and with four riders, raced toward the cabin. The man who waited there lost his head suddenly and bolted.

  A lean blond rider in a Mexican jacket swept down on him, rope twirling. It shot out, and the horse went racing by, and the burly teamster’s body was a bounding thing, leaping and tumbling through the cactus after the racing horse. Chavez swung at once, and turned back toward the saloon. The riders fanned out and started going through the town. Where they went, there were gunshots, then smoke.

  Rock Bannon saw Lamport standing on the porch. “Don’t shoot!” he commanded. He walked the steel-dust within twenty fe
et. Lamport stood on the edge of the porch, wearing two guns, his dark, dirty red wool shirt open at the neck to display a massive, hairy chest.

  “Howdy, Rock!” Lamport said. He spat into the dust. “Come to take your lickin’?”

  “To give you yours,” Rock said coolly. “How do you want it?”

  “Why, I reckon we’re both gun-handy, Rock,” Lamport said, “so I expect it’ll be guns. I’d have preferred hand-fightin’ you, but that would scarcely give you an even break.”

  “You reckon not?” Rock slid from the stallion. “Well, Lamport, I always figure to give a man what he wants. If you think you can take me with your hands, shed those guns and get started. You’ve bought yourself a fight.”

  Incredulous, Lamport stared at him. “You mean it?” he said, his eyes brightening.

  “Stack your duds and grease your skids, coyote!” Rock said. “It’s knuckle and skull now, and free-fighting, if you like it!”

  “Free, he says!” A light of unholy joy gleamed in Lamport’s eyes. “Free it is!”

  “Watch yourself, boss!” Red said, low-voiced. “That hombre looks like blazin’ brimstone on wheels!”

  “Then we’ll take off his wheels and kick the brimstone out!” Rock said. He hung his guns over the saddlehorn as Bat Chavez rode around the corner.

  Lamport faced him in the dust before the saloon, a huge grizzly of a man with big iron-knuckled hands and a skin that looked like stretched rawhide.

  “Come and get it!” he sneered, and rushed.

  As he rushed, he swung a powerful right. Rock Bannon met him halfway, and lashed out with his own right. His punch was faster, and it caught the big man flush, but Lamport took it on the mouth, spat blood, and rushed in swinging with both fists. Suddenly he caught Bannon and hurled him into the dust with such force that a cloud of dust arose. Rock rolled over like a cat, gasping for breath, and just rolled from under Lamport’s driving boots as the big man tried to leap on him to stamp his life out.