Collection 1983 - Law Of The Desert Born (v5.0) Read online

  “Dad,” Rusty moved toward her father, “is he crazy or are we? Do you suppose he really saw Targ?”

  Tom Monaghan stared at Sartain thoughtfully, noting the two low-slung guns, the careless, easy swing of Kim’s stride. “Rusty, I don’t think he’s crazy, I think maybe Targ is. I’m going to let him have the cows!”

  “Father!” She was aghast. “You wouldn’t! Not three hundred!”

  “Six hundred,” he corrected. “Six hundred can be made to pay. And I think it will be worth it to see what happens. I’ve an idea more happened up there today than we have heard. I think that somebody tried to walk on this man’s toes, and he probably happens to have corns on every one of them!”

  When their meal was finished, Monaghan looked over at Kim, who had had little to say during the supper. “How soon would you want that six hundred head?” He paused. “Next week?”

  The four cowhands looked up, startled, but Kim failed to turn a hair. “Tomorrow at daylight,” Kim said coolly. “I want the nearest cattle you have to the home ranch and the help of your boys. I’m goin’ to push cattle on that grass before noon!”

  Tom Monaghan’s eyes twinkled. “You’re sudden, young fellow, plumb sudden. You know Targ’s riders will be up there, don’t you? He won’t take this.”

  “Targ’s riders,” Sartain said quietly, “will get there about noon or after. I aim to be there first. Incidentally,” he said, “I’ll want some tools to throw together a cabin—a good strong one. I plan to build just west of the water,” he added.

  He turned suddenly toward Rusty, who had also been very quiet. As if she knew he intended speaking to her, she looked up. Her boy’s shirt was open at the neck, and he could see the swell of her bosom under the rough material.

  “Thought about that cookin’ job yet?” he asked. “I sure am fed up on my own cookin’. Why, I’d even marry a cook to get her up there!”

  A round-faced cowhand choked suddenly on a big mouthful of food and had to leave the table. The others were grinning at their plates. Rusty Monaghan’s face went pale, then crimson. “Are you,” she said coolly, “offering me a job, or proposing?”

  “Let’s make it a job first,” Kim said gravely. “I ain’t had none of your cookin’ yet! If you pass the exams, then we can get down to more serious matters.”

  Rusty’s face was white to the lips. “If you think I’d cook for or marry such a pigheaded windbag as you are, you’re wrong! What makes you think I’d marry any broken down, drifting saddle tramp that comes in here? Who do you think you are, anyway?”

  Kim got up. “The name, ma’am, is Kim Sartain. As to who I am, I’m the hombre you’re goin’ to cook for. I’ll be leavin’ early tomorrow, but I’ll drop back the next day, so you fix me an apple pie. I like lots of fruit, real thick pie, and plenty of juice.”

  Coolly, he strolled outside and walked toward the corral, whistling. Tom Monaghan looked at his daughter, smiling, and the hands finished their supper quickly and hurried outside.

  IT WAS DAYBREAK, with the air still crisp when Rusty opened her eyes suddenly to hear the lowing of cattle, and the shrill Texas yells of the hands, driving cattle. Hurriedly, she dressed and stopped on the porch to see the drive lining out for the mountains. Far ahead, her eyes could just pick out a lone horseman, headed toward Gunsight Pass and the mountain meadows.

  Her father came in an hour later, his face serious. He glanced at her quickly. “That boy’s got nerve!” he said. “Furthermore, he’s a hand!”

  “But Dad,” she protested, “they’ll kill him! He’s just a boy, and that Tanner is vicious! I’ve heard about him!”

  Monaghan nodded. “I know, but Baldy tells me this Sartain was segundo for Ward McQueen, of the Tumbling K when they had that run-in with rustlers a few months back. According to Baldy, Sartain is hell on wheels with a gun!”

  She was worried despite herself. “Dad, what do you think?”

  He smiled. “Why, honey, if that man is all I think he is, Targ had better light a shuck for Texas, and as for you, you’d better start bakin’ that apple pie!”

  “Father!” Rusty protested. But her eyes widened a little, and she stepped farther onto the porch, staring after the distant rider.

  Kim Sartain was a rider without illusions. Born and bred in the West, he knew to what extent such a man as Jim Targ could and would go. He knew that with tough, gun-handy riders, he would ordinarily be able to hold all the range he wanted, and that high meadow range was good enough to fight for.

  Sartain knew he was asking for trouble, yet there was something in him that resented being pushed around. He had breathed the free air of a free country too long and had the average American’s fierce resentment of tyranny. Targ’s high-handed manner had got his back up, and his decision had not been a passing fancy. He knew just what he was doing, but no matter what the future held, he was determined to move in on this range and to hold it and fight for it if need be.

  There was no time to waste. Targ might take him lightly, and think his declaration had been merely the loud talk of a disgruntled cowhand, but on the other side, the rancher might take him seriously and come riding for trouble. The cattle could come in their own good time, but he intended to be on the ground, and quickly.

  The dun was feeling good and Kim let him stretch out in a fast canter. It was no time at all until he was riding up to the pool by the waterfall. He gave a sigh of relief, for he was the first man on the ground.

  He jumped down, took a hasty drink, and let the dun drink. Meanwhile he picked the bench for his cabin and put down the ax he had brought with him. Baldy had told him there was a saddle trail that came up the opposite side of the mountain and skirted among the cliffs to end near this pool. Leaving the horse, Kim walked toward it.

  Yet before he had gone more than three steps, he heard a quick step behind him. He started to turn, but a slashing blow with a six-gun barrel clipped him on the skull. He staggered and started to fall, glimpsed the hazy outlines of his attacker, and struck out. The blow landed solidly, and then something clipped him again and he fell over into the grass. The earth crumbled beneath him, and he tumbled, over and over, hitting a thick clump of greasewood growing out of the cliff, then hanging up in some manzanita.

  The sound of crashing in the brush below him was the first thing he remembered. He was aware that he must have had his eyes open and been half-conscious for some time. His head throbbed abominably, and when he tried to move his leg, it seemed stiff and clumsy. He lay still, recalling what had happened.

  He remembered the blows he had taken, and then falling. Below him he heard more thrashing in the brush. Then a voice called, “Must have crawled off, Tanner. He’s not down here!”

  Somebody swore, and aware of his predicament Kim held himself rigid, waiting for them to go away. Obviously, he was suspended in the clump of manzanita somewhere on the side of the cliff. Above him, he heard the lowing of cattle. The herd had arrived then. What of the boys with it?

  It was a long time before the searchers finally went away and he could move. When he could, he got a firm grip on the root of the manzanita and then turned himself easily. His leg was bloody, but seemed unbroken. It was tangled in the brush, however, and his pants were torn. Carefully, he felt for his guns. One of them remained in its holster. The other was gone.

  Working with infinite care and as quietly as possible, he lowered himself down the steep face of the rocky bluff, using brush and projections until finally he was standing upright on the ground below. A few minutes search beneath where he had hung in the brush disclosed his other pistol, hanging in the top of a mountain mahogany.

  Checking his guns, he limped slowly down into the brush. Here weakness suddenly overcame him, and he slumped to a sitting position. He had hurt his leg badly, and his head was swimming.

  He squinted his eyes, squeezing them shut and opening them, trying to clear his brain. The hammering in his skull continued, and he sat very still, his head bulging with pain, his eyes watching
a tiny lizard darting among the stones. How long he sat there he did not know, but when he got started moving again, he noticed that the sun was well past the zenith.

  Obviously, he had been unconscious for some time in the brush, and had lost more time now. Limping, but moving carefully, he wormed his way along the gully into which he had fallen and slowly managed to mount the steep, tree-covered face of the bluff beyond where he had fallen.

  Then, lowering himself to the ground he rested for a few minutes, then dragged himself on. He needed water, and badly. Most of all, he had to know what had happened. Apparently, Targ was still in command of the situation. The herd had come through, but Monaghan’s riders must have been driven off. Undoubtedly, Targ had the most men. Bitterly, he thought of his boasts to Rusty and what they had amounted to. He had walked into a trap like any child.

  It took him almost an hour of moving and resting to get near the falls. Watching his chance, he slid down to the water and got a drink, and then, crouching in the brush, he examined his leg. As he had suspected, no bones were broken, but the flesh was badly lacerated from falling into the branches, and he must have lost a good deal of blood. Carefully, he bathed the wound in the cold water from the pool, then bound it up as well as he could by tearing his shirt and using his handkerchief.

  When he had finished, he crawled into the brush and lay there like a wounded animal, his eyes closed, his body heavy with the pulsing of pain in his leg and the dull ache in his skull.

  Somehow, he slept, and when he awakened, he smelled smoke. Lifting his head, he stared around into the darkness. Night had fallen, and there was a heavy bank of clouds overhead, but beyond the pool was the brightness of a fire. Squinting his eyes, he could see several moving figures, and no one sitting down. The pool at this point was no more than twenty feet across, and he could hear their voices clearly and distinctly.

  “Might as well clean ’em up now, Targ,” somebody was saying in a heavy voice. “He pushed these cattle in here, an’ it looks like he was trying to make an issue of it. Let’s go down there tonight.”

  “Not tonight, Tanner.” Targ’s voice was slower, lighter. “I want to be sure. When we hit them, we’ve got to wipe them out, leave nobody to make any complaint or push the case. It will be simple enough for us to tell our story and make it stick if they don’t have anybody on their side.”

  “Who rightly owns this range?” Tanner asked.

  Targ shrugged. “Anybody who can hold it. Monaghan wanted it, and I told everybody to lay off. Told them how much I wanted it and what would happen if they tried to move in. They said I’d no right to hold range I wasn’t usin’, an’ I told them to start something, an’ I’d show ’em my rights with a gun. I like this country, and I mean to hold it. I’ll get the cattle later. If any of these piddlin’ little ranchers want trouble, I’ll give it to ’em.”

  “Might as well keep these cows and get the rest of what that Irishman’s got,” Tanner said. “We’ve got the guns. If they are wiped out, we can always say they started it, and who’s to say we’re wrong?”

  “Sure. My idea exactly,” Targ agreed. “I want that Monaghan’s ranch, anyway.” He laughed. “And that ain’t all he’s got that I want.”

  “Why not tonight? He’s only got four hands, and one of them is bad hurt or dead. At least one more is wounded a mite.”

  “Uh-uh. I want that Sartain first. He’s around somewhere, you can bet on that! He’s hurt and hurt bad, but we didn’t find him at the foot of that cliff, so he must have got away somehow! I want to pin his ears back, good!”

  Kim eased himself deeper into the brush and tried to think his way out. His rifle was on his horse, and what had become of the dun he did not know. Obviously, the Monaghan riders had returned to the Y7, but it was he who had led Tom Monaghan into this fight, and it was up to him to get him out. But how?

  The zebra dun, he knew, was no easy horse for a stranger to lay hands on. The chances were that the horse was somewhere out on the meadow, and his rifle with him. Across near the fire there were at least six men, and no doubt another one or two would be watching the trail down to the Y7.

  It began to look as if he had taken a bigger bite than he could handle. Maybe Rusty was right after all, and he was just a loud-talking drifting saddle bum who could get into trouble but not out of it. The thought stirred him to action. He eased back away from the edge of the pool, taking his time and moving soundlessly. Whatever was done must be done soon.

  The situation was simple enough. Obviously, Monaghan and some of the small flatland ranchers needed this upper range, but Targ, while not using it himself, was keeping them off. Now he obviously intended to do more. Kim Sartain had started something that seemed about to destroy the people he called his friends. And the girl too.

  He swallowed that one. Maybe he wasn’t the type for double harness, but if he was, Rusty Monaghan was the girl. And why shouldn’t he be? Ward McQueen had been the same sort of hombre as himself, and Ward was marrying his boss—as pretty a girl as ever owned a ranch.

  While he had decided to homestead this place simply because of Targ’s high-handed manner, he could see that it was an excellent piece of range. From talk at the Y7 he knew there were more of these mountain meadows, and some of the other ranchers from below could move their stock up. His sudden decision, while based on pure deviltry, was actually a splendid idea.

  His cattle were on the range, even if they still wore Monaghan’s brand. That was tantamount to possession if he could make it stick, and Kim Sartain was not a man given to backing down when his bluff was called. The camp across the pool was growing quiet, for one after another of the men was turning in. A heavy-bodied, bearded man sat near the fire, half dozing. He was the one man on guard.

  Quietly, Kim began to inch around the pool, and by the time an hour had passed and the riders were snoring loudly, he had completed the circuit to a point where he was almost within arm’s length of the nearest sleeper. En route he had acquired something else—a long forked stick.

  With infinite care, he reached out and lifted the belt and holster of the nearest rider, then, using the stick, retrieved those of the man beyond. Working his way around the camp, he succeeded in getting all the guns but those of the watcher, and those of Clyde Tanner. These last he deliberately left behind. Twice, he had to lift guns from under the edges of blankets, but only once did a man stir and look around, but as all was quiet and he could see the guard by the fire, the man returned to his sleep.

  Now, Kim got to his feet. His bad leg was stiff, and he had to shift it with care, but he moved to a point opposite the guard. Now came the risky part, and the necessity for taking chances. His Colt level at the guard, he tossed a pebble against the man’s chest. The fellow stirred, but did not look up. The next one caught him on the neck, and the guard looked up to see Kim Sartain, a finger across his lips for silence, the six-shooter to lend authority.

  The guard gulped loudly, then his lips slackened and his eyes bulged. The heavy cheeks looked sick and flabby. With a motion of the gun, Kim indicated the man was to rise. Clumsily, the fellow got to his feet and at Sartain’s gesture, approached him. Then Sartain turned the man around, and was about to tie his hands when the fellow’s wits seemed to return. With more courage than wisdom, he suddenly bellowed, “Targ! Tanner! It’s him!”

  Kim Sartain’s pistol barrel clipped him a ringing blow on the skull, and the big guard went down in a heap. Looking across his body, Kim Sartain stood with both hands filled with lead pushers. “You boys sit right still,” he said, smiling. “I don’t aim to kill anybody unless I have to. Now all of you but Tanner get up and move to the left.”

  He watched them with cat’s eyes as they moved, alert for any wrong move. When they were lined up opposite him, all either barefooted or in sock feet, he motioned to Tanner. “You get up, Clyde. Now belt on your guns, but careful! Real careful!”

  The gunman got shakily to his feet, his eyes murderous. He had been awakened from a sound sleep t
o look into Sartain’s guns and see the hard blaze of the eyes beyond them. Nor did it pass unnoticed that all the guns had been taken but his, and his eyes narrowed, liking that implication not a bit.

  “Targ,” Kim said coldly, “you and your boys listen to me! I was ridin’ through this country a perfect stranger until you tried to get mean! I don’t like to have nobody ridin’ me, see? So I went to see Monaghan, whom I’d never heard about until you mentioned him. I made a deal for cows, and I’m in these meadows to stay. You bit off more than you could chew.

  “Moreover, you brought this yellow-streaked, coyote-killin’ Tanner in here to do your gunslinging for you. I hear he’s right good at it! And I hear he was huntin’ me!

  “The rest of you boys are mostly cowhands. You know the right and wrong of this as well as I do! Well, right here and now we’re goin’ to settle my claim on this land! I left Tanner his guns after takin’ all yours because I figured he really wanted me. Now he’ll get his chance; afterwards if any of the rest of you want me, you can buy in, one at a time! When the shootin’s over here tonight, the fight’s over.”

  His eyes riveted on Targ. “You hear that, Jim Targ? Tanner gets his chance, then you do, if you want it. But you make no trouble for Tom Monaghan, and no trouble for me. You’re just a little man in a big country, you can keep your spread and run it small, or you can leave the country!”

  As he finished speaking, he turned back to Tanner. “Now, you killer for pay, you’ve got your guns. I’m going to holster mine.” His eyes swung to the waiting cowhands. “You,” he indicated an oldish man with cold blue eyes and drooping gray mustaches, “give the word!”

  With a flick of his hand, his gun dropped into its holster, and his hands to their sides. Jim Targ’s eyes narrowed, but his cowhands were all attention. Kim Sartain knew his Western men. Even outlaws like a man with nerve and would see him get a break.