Collection 1997 - End Of The Drive (v5.0) Read online

The appointment of Byrn Sonntag, notorious gunman, to investigate the cattle rustling was a mistake. If the election was to be held again tomorrow, the result would be against him. Since arriving in the Laird Valley country, Sonntag has killed at least three men, and his associates at Rawhide can scarcely be classed as good citizens. There are those on the range who declare it is more than a coincidence that certain brands belonging to Rawhide ranchers are very easily developed from brands already on this range. If Byrn Sonntag is to investigate rustling, it might be a good idea to begin in his own home town.

  Finn Mahone looked up, grinning. “Dean,” he said, “it took guts to write that, but if I were you, I’d start packing a gun. Your paper gets around. Whoever is behind all this doesn’t have a chance of making it work if the news gets outside of Laird Valley.”

  “That’s what I thought, and that’s what I wrote!” Dean said firmly. He crawled to his feet and clutched the desk for support. “What good is a newspaper unless it tells the truth and fights for the rights of the people?”

  Mahone shrugged. “A lot of them should ask that question of themselves,” he said dryly. “I’d better get Doc for you,” he said. “You’ll need some stitches in that head!”

  “He’s at Ma Boyle’s,” Dean said. “Or was starting for there just before Cobb showed up.”

  “What are you going to do now?” Mahone asked, curiously.

  “Do?” Dean demanded. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do! I’m going to print what just happened, call it the cowardly attack it was, and tell who did it and why!”

  “Then you’d better pack a gun,” Finn advised. “This business is turning bad and I don’t like it. I’ve already killed one man today.”

  “You have?” Armstrong stared at him. “Who?”

  “Fellow named Roberts. He tried to dry-gulch Texas Dowd.”

  Finn pulled his slicker around him and walked outside. Rain was still pouring down, and the street was dark and empty. The blare of music came from the Longhorn, and he heard shouts there, and once a yell. It sounded like Ringer Cobb.

  He pushed open the door and stepped into Mother Boyle’s in a gust of wind and water. When he had the door closed, he turned his back to it and stood there, looking at the room, a big, somber figure with his rain-soaked hat, his dark slicker, and his green eyes taking the room in with one measuring glance.

  Ma Boyle was standing beside Doc Finerty with a pot of coffee, and Judge Collins had turned as he entered. Nick James was there, the first time Mahone had seen him since the day of the fight. James looked up, quickly and with interest. He had one of those young-old faces, merry and friendly at times, then grave and serious. He was scarcely more than a boy, but had been doing a man’s work since he was eleven.

  “Doc,” Finn said, “better go have a look at Armstrong. Cobb pistol-whipped him.”

  “I was afraid of that!” Doc said. He got up and reached for his slicker. “Keep some coffee on, Ma!”

  Finn sat down at the end of the table, between James and Collins. Collins was concerned. “When Sonntag came in, I knew trouble was coming!”

  Finn had hung his slicker and hat near the stove. He dished up some food and poured the coffee. Briefly, and quickly, he outlined the trouble at the Lazy K, and the outcome.

  “Roberts is a paid killer.” Judge Collins was puzzled. “Doesn’t seem like Sonntag would hire any killing done.”

  “He wouldn’t,” Mahone said, speaking past half a slice of bread and butter. “Not him.”

  Nick James stirred his coffee and looked from one to the other. “You ever think maybe something else was behind this?”

  Judge Collins turned his head and looked at Nick. This man was shrewd, the Judge knew. James had ridden for him, and for McInnis. He was one of the best hands in the valley. “What are you thinking, Nick?”

  The young puncher shrugged, and gulped a swallow of coffee. “Ain’t made up my mind. Some things sure look funny, though.”

  Finn Mahone put his coffee down carefully. Suddenly he was remembering the tall, powerfully built man who was standing behind Remy that day he fought Leibman. “Any rustlin’ out your way?” he asked, casually.

  Nick nodded. “A little, here and there. Never when anybody’s around.” He stirred his coffee again. “I think I’ll quit,” he said suddenly.

  “You can always have a job with me,” Collins said. “You were the best hand I had, Nick.”

  “Or with me,” Mahone suggested, looking up.

  Their eyes met across the table. “Didn’t know you hired any hands,” Nick said. “Heard you played it alone.”

  “I have, but I’ve got some work ahead and could use help. I’d want a hand that would sling a gun if he had to…but not unless he had to.”

  “I’ll get my stuff tomorrow,” James agreed. His face tightened. “An’ collect my time.” Then he glanced at Mahone again. “How do I get there? They tell me a man can’t go through the Notch unless he knows the way.”

  “That’s right, and don’t try it alone. You get your gear, an’ if I don’t see you, go up and camp in the Notch. There’s good water, and plenty of grass. I’ll be along.”

  The door slammed open then, and wind and rain swept into the room. The newcomer struggled to get the door closed, then turned. It was Ringer Cobb.

  Finn knew at once the man had been drinking and was in a killing mood. He was not the type who staggered and floundered when drunk. Liquor brought out all the innate cruelty in the man, and if anything, steadied him and made him colder.

  His eyes fastened on Mahone’s and a light danced in them, an ugly, dangerous light. “You’re Finn Mahone,” he said, standing just inside the door, his slicker hanging around him, his hands dangling.

  Nick James pushed back gently, out of the way. Finn lifted the coffeepot and calmly filled his cup. “That’s right,” Mahone replied. “An’ you’re Ringer Cobb. You’re the man who walked into the newspaper office and slapped a defenseless man with a Colt. Makes you a pretty bad boy, doesn’t it?” Cobb glared at Mahone, his teeth half bared. “What’s the matter?” Mahone said. “Don’t you like the sound of the truth?”

  “You should be ashamed!” Ma Boyle glared at Cobb.

  “I’ve heard about you.” Cobb took a step nearer and tried to change the subject back to the one he had in mind. “Heard you’re pretty fast with a gun. That right?”

  “I do all right.” Finn lifted the cup and sipped a little coffee. “Better sit down and have a cup of coffee. Do you good.”

  “Huh?” Ringer was puzzled. Then his eyes sharpened. “Scared, huh? Think yuh can talk me out of it.”

  “No,” Mahone replied, and his voice hardened, “I’m just trying to talk you out of Boot Hill, because if you reach for that gun…I’ll kill you!”

  Ringer Cobb took a long breath through his nose, and his fingers widened. Finn sat perfectly still, just looking at him, and Cobb’s eyes wavered. He looked at Finn, and started to speak, but Mahone seemed to have lost interest, and he remarked to Collins, “Hand me that cup, Judge, and I’ll pour this than some coffee.” He looked over at Cobb. “If you’re not going to shoot me you might as well have some coffee.”

  He took the cup and filled it. “Better have some of that cake Ma bakes, too, Ringer. She’s plenty good.”

  Ringer Cobb swayed a little, staring around uncertainly. Then he slumped on the bench, and he was trembling with tension. He took the cup, and started to lift it, but some of the coffee slopped over.

  Mahone turned back to Nick. “My place is some of the best range in the world,” he said, “most of it sub-irrigated by water off the Highbinders. Not much erosion in there, an’ I don’t run enough cattle to keep it fed down. I don’t aim to get rich, just to make enough to get along pretty well.”

  “Sounds all right,” Nick said.

  None of them seemed to notice Cobb. Several times he started to say something, but Finn Mahone continued to talk, calmly, easily.

  Suddenly, Ringer got up, jerkin
g to his feet so hard he tipped over his almost empty cup. Then he wheeled and rammed through the door and was gone. Finn reached across the table and straightened the fallen cup.

  Judge Collins looked at Nick James, and James mopped the sweat from his brow. “You backed him down!” Nick said. “Just outnerved him!”

  “Better than a shootin’, don’t you think?”

  “Awful close to a shooting, Finn,” the judge said. “Awful close.”

  Finn filled a cup, took the cake, and, holding both under his slicker, went out the door and headed for the print shop.

  Nick James looked at Collins. “Judge,” he said, “how could anybody ever figger him for a rustler?” Then his eyes widened a little. “Suppose he an’ Sonntag…?”

  “Don’t get anxious, son,” the judge said. “I’m sure Finn’s good, but you don’t want to be out of a job, right? If those two fight, very likely both of them will die!”

  * * *

  DAN TAGGART WAS a slow-thinking man. He sat in the bunkhouse on the Spur and smoked his pipe. The other hands had turned in, but Dan sat there, all through the pounding rain. On his return he had gone in to see Abe, but McInnis was still unconscious, although better. Mrs. McInnis had her sister with her now. Her sister was Mrs. Harran, wife of the storekeeper.

  Unable to ask the advice of his boss, the foreman had gone back to the bunkhouse and stayed there except for a few minutes to eat. He was vastly disturbed, afraid he had done wrong, and wanting desperately to repair the damage he had done.

  That the fault was not his alone he did not see. Brewster had voted as he had, and so had Logan. When Logan’s name came into his mind he remembered Nick’s peculiar attitude. What was it Nick said? That they had lost some cows after he had been ordered out of Sage Canyon? That didn’t make sense. Would Logan have his own cows rustled? Taggart stirred uneasily, afraid he was out of his depth, but worried and uncertain of what to do.

  He glanced around at the sleeping hands, but there was none of them he could turn to, nor who would have been able to give the advice he wanted. Taggart felt the need of advice from a superior, of leadership. His job as foreman was still too new. Only one thing he knew: The voting-in of Sonntag as range detective had been a bad thing. It had put the rustlers in the saddle.

  He got up and pulled off his shirt, his pipe still in his mouth. Then he stood for a moment, scratching his stomach. He would ride over to Kastelle’s in the morning. Abe McInnis set powerful store by Texas Dowd’s opinion, and that of Remy Kastelle.

  * * *

  PIERCE LOGAN WAS sitting at his desk in a bright, rain-washed world when the door opened and Byrn Sonntag walked in.

  He had seen the man fifty times, talked with him nearly as many, and yet the man always did something to him, something he didn’t like. There was something in Sonntag’s very physical presence, his enormous vitality, the brash, raw health of him, and his deep, somewhat overpowering voice that made Logan feel less than he liked to feel.

  Sonntag was in rare form this morning. He Stamped into the office and threw his big body into a chair. He tossed his hat to the wide, low windowsill, and stared across at Logan.

  He was a big man, weighing all of two hundred and forty pounds, with a leonine head covered with thick, dull red hair. His sleeves were rolled up, and red hair curled on his brawny and powerful forearms.

  “Heard the news?” he demanded. His voice was harsh and rang with authority.

  Logan looked at him carefully. “What news?”

  “Roberts is dead. Somebody killed him when he tried to git Dowd. It wasn’t Dowd. Range folks figger it was Finn Mahone. Dowd ain’t talkin’. Mahone must’ve spotted Roberts an’ trailed him down. Anyway, he got two slugs through the heart.”

  Logan scowled. He had been depending on Roberts to do another job for him, too. A job on a man much closer, and eventually more dangerous than Texas Dowd.

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, Cobb went over to that paper an’ pistol-whipped Armstrong last night. That was my order. Then he went into the eatin’ house, an’ Mahone was there.”

  “Mahone? In town?” Pierce Logan was incredulous. “Where were you?”

  “I was busy. I can’t be everywhere!” Sonntag growled. “Anyway, Ringer wanted him, an’ he went after him.”

  “Yes?” Logan leaned forward, eagerly.

  “An’ nothin’ happened. Mahone made a fool out of him. Bluffed him out of it. Told him to set down an’ have some coffee, an’ if he drew a gun he’d kill him. Ringer sat down an’ drank the coffee!”

  “The devil!” Logan got up angrily. “Only two men blocking this thing and your men muff both of them! I tell you, Sonntag, those men have to be out of this!”

  “Don’t get riled up,” Sonntag replied deliberately. “We’ll take care of them. Anyway,” he added, “it’s all in the open now, anyway. That girl of Kastelle’s spilled the whole thing. Started people thinkin’. I knowed it was too plain—you could fool ’em only so long as they didn’t know there was any rustlin’ goin’ on.”

  “Get Dowd and Mahone out of the picture, and I don’t care how wild you go,” Logan said. “I mean that. You can run off every cow on the range!”

  Sonntag sat up and his eyes gleamed suddenly. “Say! That’s all right! The boys would like that!” He looked up at Logan who was pacing the floor. “By the way, Mahone was over to Rico. He promised Ed Wheeling a shipment of cattle.”

  “Good! That’s the only good news you’ve given me! Get some altered brands among them, I don’t care whose or how. Nobody will see them over here, anyway. All we want is the story of some funny brands!”

  “Fine with me.” Sonntag got up to go. “Got any money? I gave Roberts three hundred out of my own pocket.”

  Logan hesitated, then drew out a billfold and handed over several bills.

  “Better make it four hundred,” Sonntag said. “I can use it!”

  Pierce Logan looked up, but Sonntag wasn’t even looking at him. Logan’s eyes were ugly when he counted out the other hundred.

  Sonntag was getting too big for his boots, Logan decided. Yet, he needed the man. Only Sonntag could keep the Rawhide bunch in line. Ringer Cobb’s failure irritated him, and he got to his feet and paced the length of the office. He would have to do some of these jobs himself.

  What had frightened Cobb? The man was reputedly dangerous, and he could sling a gun, but he had backed down cold for Mahone. Roberts was dead. That meant something would have to be done about Dowd immediately. Too bad they couldn’t all do their jobs as neatly as he did. He, Pierce Logan, would do the job on Dowd, if necessary.

  He turned and walked out of his office and down the street toward the Longhorn. Judge Collins sat on his step, tilted back against the wall. He waved casually at Logan. “Old fool!” Logan muttered. “I’ll have all that self-importance out of him in a few days!”

  Impatience was driving him, and he realized its danger. Yet inefficiency always irritated him, and he wanted this over and done with.

  He saw a roan horse at the hitching rail, and Logan stared at it. What was James doing in town? There was plenty for him to do out on the range.

  Logan pushed open the door and strode into the Longhorn. Nick looked up when he came in, and shoved his hat back. “Howdy,” he said briefly.

  “How are you, James?” Logan said. “Got a message for me?”

  “No,” James said, “only that I’m quitin’.”

  “Quitting?” Pierce Logan turned his head to look at Nick again. “Why?”

  “No partic’lar reason. I never stay on one job too long. Sort of get off my feed if I do.”

  “Sorry to lose you.” Logan poured a drink from the bottle. “Going to work right away?”

  “Uh-huh.” Nick’s voice was elaborately casual. “For Finn Mahone.” Logan put the bottle back on the bar. There might be more in this than was immediately apparent. Nick James was smart. Maybe he was too smart. “I see,” he lifted his drink, “but I didn’t kn
ow Mahone used any hands?”

  “Changed his mind, I guess.”

  The door pushed open and Texas Dowd walked into the room. With him was Van Brewster. “Where’s Sonntag?”

  Logan turned. “Haven’t seen him. What’s the trouble?”

  “Plenty!” Dowd’s eyes were chill. “Mex Roberts tried to dry-gulch me the other day. When I went through his pockets, I found nearly a hundred dollars. That’s a lot of money for a range tramp. One o’ the bills was stuck together with pink paper. Brewster here recognized it as one he lost in a poker game to Sonntag.”

  “Sonntag’s the type who does his own killing,” Logan suggested. “You’re on the wrong track, Dowd.”

  “I’ll make up my mind about that!” Dowd’s voice was sharp. “If Sonntag hired Roberts to kill me, he did it on orders. I want to know whose orders!”

  Logan almost asked him who he believed had given the orders when he caught himself. If he asked that question Dowd might give the right answer, and if he did, it would mean a shooting. This was neither the time nor the place for that.

  “That’s an angle I hadn’t thought of. Sonntag’s out on the range somewhere, and I imagine he’ll be in town tonight.”

  “All right.” Dowd turned abruptly. “Then tell him I want to see him. If he’s got an explanation, I want it!”

  Dowd strode out and Logan poured another drink. He was jumpy. That damned fool Sonntag! Why did he have to use a marked bill? This whole thing was going to bust wide open, and unless he was mistaken, Sonntag was down at Lettie Mason’s right now.

  Pierce Logan returned to his office and seated himself at his desk. Abe McInnis was down in bed and in no shape for anything. Van Brewster was a hotheaded fool. Remy Kastelle was a mere girl, and her father a lazy ex-gambler who would rather read books than work. Judge Collins was too old, and Finerty was not a gunfighter. Dean Armstrong could be taken care of at leisure.

  It all boiled down to two men, and it always came back to them, to Dowd and Mahone. Dan Taggart, the foreman at the Spur, was rough and ready and a fighter if he ever made up his mind, but that was a process that ran as slow as molasses in January. There were only a few moves left; Logan just had to make those moves pay off.