Collection 1997 - End Of The Drive (v5.0) Page 14

  “You think there’ll be trouble?”

  “Uh-huh.” He was deadly serious now. “That valley is going to be on fire from one end to the other in a few weeks. Maybe even a few days. You mark my words.”

  Remy walked down to the corral while he roped Roxie and saddled her. “You know what they think, don’t you?” she said.

  “That I’m a rustler?” he asked. “Sure. I know that. But look around…why would I rustle? And if I did, how would I get them in here?”

  “There isn’t any other way?”

  “Not from Laird. I’ve got all the cattle I want. As long as I keep the varmints down there’s nothing to worry me here.”

  “If they accuse you, and try to make trouble, what will you do?” Remy asked as they neared the slate slide again.

  He shrugged, and his face was grim. “What can I do? I’ll fight if I have to. I never rustled a cow in my life, and I’m not going to take any pushing around.”

  She looked at Finn thoughtfully. “Texas Dowd doesn’t think you’re a rustler, but he warned me to stay away from you, that you were dangerous…to women.”

  Finn Mahone’s head jerked around, and she could see the flare of anger in his eyes. “Oh, he did, did he? Yes, he would think that.”

  “Why did he say it?” she asked.

  “Ask him,” Finn replied bitterly. “He’ll tell you. But he’s wrong, and if he says that in public, I’ll kill him!”

  Remy tensed, and her eyes widened. There was something here she didn’t understand. “Shall I tell him that, too?”

  “Tell him anything you want to!” he snapped. “But tell him he’s hunting the wrong man and he’s a fool!”

  “If there’s trouble coming I’d like to think you were on our side,” Remy said.

  He looked at her cynically. “That cuts both ways, but Dowd wouldn’t stay with you if I was. Dowd wants to kill me, Remy.”

  “And what about you?”

  For a moment, he did not answer, then he said simply, “No, I don’t want to kill anybody.”

  He was silent, leading the way down to the slide. They made it now, by daylight, without mishap, but Remy kept her eyes away from the depths beyond the rim.

  “You said,” Finn suggested suddenly, “that you wanted me on your side. Who do you think is on the other side?”

  They were fording the Laird, and she looked around at him. “I don’t know,” she protested. “That’s what makes the whole situation so bad. Nobody seems to know.”

  * * *

  SHE LEFT HIM at the opening of the Notch and rode on toward home. She was well aware what the people of Laird would say if they knew she had spent the night in Crystal Valley. The ranch people who knew her would think little of it, for she came and went on the range as freely as a man. But, in town, those people would be another matter.

  She was halfway to the Lazy K ranch when she met Texas Dowd. He was wearing his flat-brimmed black hat and a gray shirt. With him were Stub and Roolin, two of the hands.

  “We was lookin’ for you, ma’am,” Dowd said. “All hell’s busted loose!”

  “What do you mean?” Remy reined the mare around, frightened at the grimness of their manner.

  “Somebody shot Abe McInnis last night. He went off up the valley, with that cowhand named Tony. When they didn’t get back, Roolin here, who was up that way waitin’ for him, rode up after him with Nick James, that hand of Logan’s.

  “They found ’em back in a narrow canyon near a brandin’ fire. Tony was dead, shot three times through the belly, once in the head. McInnis had been shot twice. Doc says he might live; he’s in purty bad shape.”

  “Who did it? Who could have done it?”

  “I don’t know who done it,” Roolin said suddenly, harshly, “but he took off through the mountains ridin’ a black stallion. There was another man or two with him. Abe evidently come up on ’em, an’ they went t’ shootin’.”

  “People in Laird’s some upset,” Dowd said. “Miller’s gone out that way to have a look. Abe’s got him a lot of friends around.”

  “I’d like to have a talk with Mahone!” Roolin said. “I got my own ideas about him!”

  She started to speak, then hesitated. “Just when did it happen?”

  “Near’s we can figger it was late yesterday afternoon,” Roolin offered. “Could have been evenin’, but probably was earlier.”

  That could have been before she met Mahone at the slide. Where had he been coming from then? He had offered no explanation. Was there a trail out through one of the narrow canyons that opened up near where she had first seen him? If there was, he could have ridden the distance without trouble.

  Brewster was at the ranch when she got there, accompanied by Dowd. Her father had put his book aside and his face was grave. He was a quiet man, but she knew from past experience that when stirred he was hard, bitterly hard, and a man who would fight to the last shell and the last drop of blood.

  Van Brewster was a burly man, deep-voiced and hard-bitten. His background was strictly pioneer. He had spent most of his life until now working in the plains country or the mountains, had soldiered, hunted, trapped, and fought Indians and rustlers.

  “Abe was my friend!” he was saying as she entered, “and I aim to get the man responsible!”

  Dowd drew back to one side of the room and thoughtfully rolled a cigarette. His eyes went from Kastelle to Brewster. He said nothing, invited nothing. A few minutes later, horses were heard in the ranch yard. “That’ll be Logan an’ Collins,” Brewster said. “I told ’em we would meet here.”

  With them were Harran, the Emporium owner who ran a few cattle on the Collins range, and Dan Taggart, McInnis’s foreman. All were grim and hardfaced, and all carried guns. “Miller’s comin’,” Taggart stated. “He’s been on the range all day!”

  “Find anything?” Harran asked.

  “Some tracks,” Taggart said, “mighty big hoss tracks. He thinks they were the tracks o’ that stallion o’ Mahone’s!”

  Dowd pushed away from the wall, his thumbs hooked in his belt. “Find ’em close to the body of either man? Or close to the fire?”

  “Wal, no,” Taggart admitted. “Not right close’t. They was under some trees, maybe fifty yards away. The horse could’ve been tied there, though.”

  “It could have,” Dowd admitted, “or he could have come up there and looked around and rode off, either before then, or later.”

  “If it was later, why didn’t he report it?” Taggart demanded.

  “Well,” Collins interrupted, “if you recall, he’s scarcely been welcomed around Laird. Probably didn’t figure it was any of his business! Or maybe he didn’t know what was goin’ on.”

  “You defendin’ him?” Taggart demanded. “You want t’ remember my boss is a-lyin’ home durned near dead!”

  “I do not want any accusations without proof!” Judge Collins said sharply. “Just because one man’s hurt and another’s dead, that doesn’t make Mahone guilty if he’s innocent!”

  “Well,” Taggart said dryly, “if I see Finn Mahone on that place again, I’m goin’ to shoot first and ask questions after!”

  Dowd smiled without humor. “Better make sure it’s first,” he said, “or you won’t live long. Finn Mahone’s no man to drag iron on unless you intend to kill him.”

  “You sound like you know him,” Brewster suggested.

  Footsteps sounded on the porch, and the door opened. Alcorn was standing there, and with him Ike Hibby, Montana Kerr, and Ringer Cobb, all of Rawhide.

  “I do,” Dowd said, staring at the newcomers. “I know he’s a man you hadn’t better accuse of rustlin’ unless you’re ready to fill your hand.”

  Ringer Cobb was narrow-hipped and wide shouldered; a build typical of the western rider. His guns were slung low and tied down. He glanced across at Dowd. “If you’re talkin’ about Mahone,” he said casually, “I’ll accuse him! All this talk of his bein’ fast with a gun doesn’t faze me none. I think he’s rustlin’.
He or his boys.”

  Judge Collins studied Cobb and pulled at his mustache. “What do you mean…his boys?” he asked. “I’ve understood Mahone played a lone hand.”

  “So have we all,” Harran agreed, “but how do we know?”

  That was it, Remy admitted, how did they know? How about that cup on the table, and the still-warm fire? Where had Mahone gone when he rode off that morning?

  “How would he get cattle back into that country?” she asked. “Any of you ever tried to go through that Notch?”

  “He does it,” Cobb said. He looked at the girl, his eyes speculative. “An’ for all we know, there may be another route. Nobody ever gets back into that wild country below the Rimrock.”

  “Nobody but the hombre that killed Tony,” Taggart said grimly. “He was in there.”

  “All this is gettin’ us nowhere,” Brewster put in. “I’ve lost stock. It’s been taken off my range without me ever guessin’ until recent. I can’t stand to lose no more.”

  “I think it’s time we organized and did something,” Alcorn spoke up.

  “What?” Kastelle asked. He had been sitting back, idly shuffling cards and watching their faces as the men talked. His eyes returned several times to Pierce Logan. “What do you think, Logan?”

  “I agree,” Pierce said. He was immaculate today, perfectly groomed, and now his voice carried with a tone of decision, almost of command. “I think we should hire someone to handle this problem.” He paused. “A range detective, and one who is good with a gun.”

  “That suits me!” Ike Hibby said emphatically. “That suits me right down t’ the ground. If Mahone an’ his boys are goin’ t’ work our cows, we got t’ take steps!”

  “You’ve said again that he has some men,” Collins said. “Does anyone actually know that?”

  “I do,” Alcorn replied. “I seen him an’ three others back in the Highbinders, two, three weeks ago. Strangers,” he added.

  Harran nodded. “He buys a powerful lot of ammunition. More than one man would use.”

  “Maybe,” Kastelle suggested, smiling a little, “he’s heard some of this kind of talk and has been getting ready for trouble.”

  “It’s more than one man would use,” Harran insisted.

  “What about this range detective?” Brewster asked. “Who could we get?”

  “Why not Byrn Sonntag?” Hibby suggested. “He’s in the country, and he’s not busy runnin’ cows like the rest of us.”

  “Sonntag?” Collins burst out. “Why, the man’s a notorious killer!”

  “What do you want?” Cobb said. “A preacher?”

  “It takes a man like that!” Brewster stated dogmatically. “If he finds a man rustlin’, why bother with a trial?”

  Pierce Logan said nothing, but inside he was glowing. This couldn’t be going better.…

  “You’re bein’ quiet, Logan,” Brewster said. “What do you think?”

  “Well,” Logan said, shrugging, “it’s up to you boys, but if Miller can’t cope with it, then perhaps Sonntag could.”

  “Mahone’s supposed t’ be a bad man with a gun,” Cobb said, “or so Dowd tells us. Well, Sonntag can handle him.”

  Kastelle looked up. “By the way,” he said, “has anyone ever seen Mahone rustling? Has he been caught with any stolen stock? Has he been seen riding on anybody’s range? What evidence is there?”

  “Well,” Brewster said, uneasily, “not any, rightly, but we know—”

  “We know nothing!” Collins said sharply. “Nothing at all! This suspicion stems from a lot of rumors. Nothing more.”

  “Where there’s smoke there’s fire!” Alcorn said. “I think Sonntag would be a good bet, myself.”

  “He could gather evidence,” Logan admitted carefully. “We would then know what to do.”

  “You’ve not said what you think, ma’am.” Taggart looked over at Remy. “Abe sets powerful store by what you think about stock. How do you figger this?”

  “I don’t believe Finn Mahone is a rustler,” Remy said. “I think we should have plenty of evidence before we make any accusations. All we know is that we’ve missed stock and that Mahone keeps to himself.”

  Logan looked up, surprised. The feeling in Remy’s voice aroused him, and he looked at her with new eyes. In the past few months he had taken his time with Remy, feeling he was the only man on the range at whom a girl of her type could look twice. Now, something in her voice made him suddenly alert.

  “Well,” Brewster said irritably, “what’s it to be? Are we goin’ to do something or just ride home no better off than when we came?”

  “I’m for hirin’ Sonntag,” Alcorn said seriously.

  “Me, too,” Cobb said.

  “Count me in on that,” Ike Hibby said. He lighted his pipe. “I’m only running a few cattle, but I’ve lost too much stock!”

  “Put it to a vote,” Logan suggested. “That’s the democratic way.”

  Judge Gardner Collins, Kastelle, Remy, and Texas Dowd voted against it. Alcorn, Hibby, Cobb, Brewster, and Taggart voted for Sonntag.

  “How about it, Logan?” Collins said. “Where do you stand?”

  “Well,” he said with evident reluctance, “if it comes to a vote, I’m with the boys on Sonntag. That looks like action.”

  “Then it’s settled!” Brewster said. He got to his feet. “I’m a-gittin’ home.”

  “Mahone said something to me once,” Remy said, in a puzzled tone. “He said the way to look for rustlers was with a pen and ink.”

  Ike Hibby jerked, and looked around hastily. Ringer Cobb’s eyes narrowed, and strayed to Dowd.

  Texas Dowd was leaning against the wall again, and he looked back at Cobb, his eyes bright with malice.

  Hibby shifted his feet. “Reckon I’ll be headin’ for home,” he said. “Got a long ways t’ go!”

  Brewster picked up his hat and nodded good-bye to everyone. Alcorn and Ike glared at Remy, Alcorn licking his lips. “I don’t figure I know what you mean, ma’am. But if anyone is accusin’ anyone, it’s us against Mahone. Not the other way around.”

  Slowly, they trooped out.

  “Now what did I say?” Remy demanded, looking from her father to Dowd.

  The tall Texan walked over and dropped into a chair. “You put your finger on the sore spot,” he said grimly. “You blew the lid off the trouble in Laird!”

  “Why, how do you mean?” she demanded, wide-eyed.

  “Got a pen?” Texas said grimly.

  She brought one out, and some paper. He looked up at her. “What’s Abe’s brand? A Spur, ain’t it? Now look, an’ I’ll draw a Spur. Now what’s Ike Hibby’s brand? IH joined. Now just you take a look, ma’am…”

  She looked at the rough drawing.

  “You see what I mean? You take Abe’s brand, add a mite more to the sides of the Spur to make it look like an I, then put a bar on the end of the Spur to make her look like the outside of the H.”

  Remy leaned over the table, excitedly. “But then, he could steal the Spur cattle and alter that brand without trouble!”

  “Uh-huh, unless we caught him at it. Or unless we found some stock with altered brands. We ain’t done either.”

  “You mean to say you’ve known this all the time?”

  “I been thinkin’ about it. But thinking something and havin’ evidence ain’t the same thing.”

  “But what about ours? The Lazy K?”

  “It’s probably made into a Box Diamond, and that’s Ringer Cobb’s brand. Brewster’s Lazy S they change into a Lazy Eight.”

  “But then, that Rawhide crowd must be the rustlers!” Remy exclaimed.

  “Uh-huh,” Dowd agreed. “That’s what I thought, but what can we prove?

  “Something else, too,” he added gravely. “Tonight the Rawhide bunch voted their own boss in as a paid, legal killer! Who’s goin’ to tell him where to stop? Or who he kills? Who will stop him once he’s started?”

  CHAPTER 4

  FINN MAHONE HEARD of
the action of the Cattleman’s Association when in Rico. He had made it a duty to visit Rico every so often, always hoping the man he had come west to find would show himself there again.

  He had never seen the man for whom he was looking close up. He knew his name, that he had been a riverboat gambler, and that he was a wizard with cards and deadly with a pistol. He knew also that the man carried a derringer in his sleeve and was not above sneak-shooting a man.

  Finn Mahone had trailed him from New Orleans to Natchez. All the time, the man had ridden a stolen steel-dust gelding. The man had ridden the big horse all the way to Santa Fe, where he traded it off for another animal. Mahone had bought the steel-dust from the new owner on a hunch and continued on.

  Then he heard that a man answering the rough description had killed a man in Rico. But in Rico the trail was lost for good. Eventually, Finn had explored the Crystal Valley and settled down there. He was operating on a hunch that his man was somewhere around. He kept the big gelding, although he could not bring himself to ride it, and the horse grazed his upper pasture even now.

  Ed Wheeling was in the Gold Spike Bar when he walked in. Wheeling greeted him with a smile. “How’s it, Finn? Got any cattle? That last herd I bought from you was said to be the finest beef in Kansas City!”

  “Thanks.” Finn ordered a drink. “When do you want some? I reckon I can bring over a few. About a hundred head.”

  “That all you’ve got? I’ll take them, and top prices any time you get them over here. What’s this I hear about Sonntag being hired as a range detective?”

  Mahone looked at him quickly. “Sonntag? That’s bad.”

  “What I thought. The man’s a killer. I saw him kill one man here in town only a few weeks ago. The man had an even break, if you can ever call it even when they go against him.”

  Finn turned his glass in his fingers. “Wheeling, what do you know about this rustling?”

  Wheeling glanced right and left, then touched his tongue to his lips. “Nothing, if anybody asks. Me, I don’t buy any doubtful beef, but there’s others do. I’ll tell you this much. There’s been some queer-looking brands shipped out of here. Good jobs, but they looked burned over to me.”