Desert Death-Song Page 19

  Two stranger riders lounged at the bar. They turned and looked at him as he came in.

  “Howdy, Ward!” Abel said. “How’s things at the Tumblin’ K?”

  The two men at the bar turned abruptly and looked at him again, a quick searching glance. He had started to speak to Gelvin, and something warned him. Turning on his heel he strode to the bar.

  “Purty good,” he said. “Diggin’ some stock out of the brakes today. Tough work. All right for a brushpopper, but me, I like open country!”

  He tossed off his drink and watched the two strange riders in the bar mirror.

  “They tell me there’s good range over beyond the Newtons, Gelvin,” he said. “Reckon I’ll go over and see if there’s any lyin’ around loose.”

  Gelvin looked up sharply. He was a short, square-shouldered man with a keen, intelligent face.

  “There’s plenty lyin’ around loose!” he said. “Yuh can have it for the takin’! That country’s goin’ back to desert just as fast as it can! Sand movin’ in, streams dryin’ up! Yuh can ride for a hundred miles and never find a drink … Why”—he picked up the cards and began to shuffle them—“old Coyote Benny Chait was in here, two, three weeks ago. He was headin’ out of the country! Got euchred out of his ranch by some slick card handler! He was laughin’ at the hombre that won it, said he’d get enough of it in a hurry!”

  The two riders had stiffened now, and were glaring, eyes hard, at Gelvin.

  “Yeah?” McQueen suggested. “Who was the hombre what got the ranch? Did he say?”

  “Shore!” Gelvin said. “Some card shark name of—”

  “Yuh talk too much!” The voice was cold and ugly. The larger of the two riders stepped toward Gelvin’s chair. “What do you know about the Newton country?”

  Startled, Gelvin turned in his chair. His eyes went from one man to the other, his face slowly turning pale. Ward McQueen had the bottle and was pulling it toward his whisky glass.

  “What is this?” Gelvin demanded. “What did I say?”

  “Yuh lied!” the big man said coldy. “Yuh lied! That country over there ain’t goin’ back! She’s good as she ever was!”

  Gelvin was a stubborn man. “I did not lie,” he said sternly. “I lived in that country for ten years! I came in with the first white men! I know of what I speak!”

  “Then yuh mean I’m a liar?” The big man’s hand spread over his gun. “Reach, cuss yuh!”

  Ward McQueen turned in one swift movement. His right hand knocked the bottle rolling toward the second rider as he turned, and he kept on swinging until his right hand grabbed the big rider by the belt. With a heave of his shoulders, he swung the big fellow off balance and whirled him, staggering, into the smaller man who had sprung back to avoid the bottle.

  The big man hit the floor and came up with a grunt of fury. He came up, and then he froze and his hands moved wide away from his gun butts. Ward McQueen was standing with a gun in his right hand, watching them.

  “When a man wants to talk in this town,” Ward said, “he talks, and nobody interferes. Get me?”

  “If’n yuh didn’t have the drop on me yuh wouldn’t talk so big!” the bigger man sneered.

  Swiftly, Ward flipped his gun back into the holster.

  “All right!” he said loudly. “Yuh want it … Draw!”

  The two men stood facing him, their faces turning white under their beards. Neither of them liked the look of Ward McQueen. Both men knew gun handlers when they saw them, and suddenly they decided this was no time for bravery.

  “We ain’t lookin’ for trouble,” the big one said. “Hollier’n me just rode into town for a drink.”

  “Then ride out,” Ward said coolly, “and don’t butt into talk where yuh’re not needed.”

  The two men walked sheepishly from the room, and Ward watched them go. Then he stepped back to the bar.

  “Thanks, Gelvin,” he said. “Yuh told me somethin’ I wanted to know.”

  “I don’t understand,” Gelvin said. “What made ’em mad?”

  “That card shark?” Ward asked. “His name wasn’t Jim Yount, was it?”

  Gelvin’s mouth gaped. “Why, shore! That’s right! How’d yuh know?”

  McQueen smiled, but said nothing. The tall stranger playing cards with Gelvin looked up and their eyes met.

  “Yuh wouldn’t be the Ward McQueen from down Texas way, would yuh?” the tall man asked.

  “That’s right,” McQueen looked at the man. “Why?”

  The fellow smiled engagingly. “Just wondered. I been down Texas way. Yuh cut a wide swath down thataway. I heard about that gang yuh run out of Maravillas Canyon… .”

  Watchfully McQueen took the trail toward the Tumbling K, but he saw nothing of the two riders with whom he’d had trouble. Hollier. That would be the smaller one. Ward nodded thoughtfully. He recalled the name. There had been a Hollier who got away from a lynching party down in Uvalde a few years back. He trailed with an hombre named Packer. And the bigger man had a P burned on his holster with a branding iron.

  What was Jim Yount’s game? These two were obviously in with him, as both had seemed anxious his name not be spoken, and had seemed eager to quiet the talk about the range beyond the Newtons.

  The facts were simple enough. Yount had won a ranch in a poker game. Gelvin implied the game was crooked. The ranch he had won was going back to desert. He had, in other words, won nothing but trouble. What followed from that?

  The logical thing would be for Yount to shrug it off and ride on. He was not doing this, which implied some sort of a plan. Lund and Dodson would make likely companions for Packer and Hollier. Yount was talking of buying cattle, but he was not one to run his cattle on a dead range. Did they plan to rustle the cattle? Or was it some even more involved plan?

  One thing was sure with McQueen. It was time he was getting back to the ranch to put the others on the lookout for trouble. It would be coming now, probably sooner than it might have had he not stumbled on that information from Gelvin tonight.

  The Tumbling K foreman was riding into the yard when the shot rang out.

  Something struck him a wicked blow on the head and he felt himself falling backward into darkness, the sound of the shot ringing in his ears… .

  His head felt tight, constricted as though a band were drawn about his temples. Slowly, fighting every inch of the way, he battled his way back to consciousness. His lids fluttered, then closed, too weak to force themselves open. Again he fought against the heaviness and got them open. He was lying on his back in a half-light, the air felt damp, cool.

  When awareness moved over him, he knew suddenly that he was in a cave or mine tunnel. Turning his head slightly, he looked around. He was lying on a crude pallet on a sandy cave floor. Some twenty feet away he could see a long narrow shaft of light. Nearby his guns hung from a peg in the cave wall, and his rifle leaned against the wall.

  Suddenly the narrow rift of light was blotted out, and he heard someone crawling into the cave. The man came up and threw down an armful of fire wood, then lighted a lantern. He came over.

  “Come out of it, huh? Man, I thought yuh never would!” The man was lean and old, with twinkling blue eyes and almost white hair. He was long and tall. Ward noted the foot gear suddenly. This was the man they had trailed up the canyon! “Who are you?” he demanded.

  The man smiled. “Charlie Quayle’s the name. Used to ride for Chait, over the Newtons.”

  “Yuh’re the hombre we trailed up the canyon a few days back. Yestiddy, I mean.”

  Quayle laughed. “Right the first time! Yuh been lyin’ here all of two weeks, nearer dead than alive. Delirious, most of the time. Figgered yuh never would come out of it.”

  “Two weeks!” Ward McQueen struggled to sit up, then sank back. “Yuh mean I’ve been here two weeks? Why, they’ll figger I’m dead back at the ranch! Why’d yuh bring me here? Who shot me?”

  “Hold on!” Quayle chuckled. “Give me time an’ I’ll answer all the question
s I can. First place, two of them rustlin’ hands of Jim Yount’s packed yuh to the canyon and dropped yuh into a wash. They kicked sand over yuh and then dropped on some brush. But they wasn’t no hands to work, so they left off and went away.

  “I was right curious as to who yuh was, and dug into that pile. Then I found yuh was alive. Don’t reckon they knowed it. I packed yuh in here, and mister, yuh’re the heaviest durned man I ever did pack! And me with a game leg!”

  “Was yuh trailin’ ’em when they shot me?”

  “No. I was scoutin’ the layout around the ranch, figgerin’ to steal me some coffee, when I heard the shot. Then I seen them packin’ yuh away, so I follered.” Quayle lighted his pipe. “There’s been some changes,” he went on. “Yore friend Sartain has been fired. So have Fox an’ the baldheaded gent. Tennessee had a run-in with the redhead, that one they call Lund, and Lund killed him. Outdrawed him in a picked fight. Yount, he’s real friendly with Miss Kermitt, and he’s runnin’ the ranch. One or more of them tough gun hands around all the time.”

  Ward lay on his back staring up at the rocky roof of the cave. Kim Sartain fired! It didn’t seem reasonable. Why, Kim had been with Ruth Kermitt longer than any of them! He had been with her when she and her brother had first come over the trail from Wyoming. He had helped her when she bought this ranch, had known her brother, had been with her even before the trouble at Pilot Range when Ward had first joined them. And now he was fired, run off the place!

  And Tennessee killed!

  What sort of a girl was Ruth Kermitt to fire her oldest hands and take on a bunch of gunslick rustlers led by a crooked gambler?

  “Yuh got a hard head,” Quayle said suddenly, “or yuh’d be dead right now. The bullet hit right over the eye, but she skidded around yore skull under the skin. Laid yore scalp right open. Sort of concussion, too. And yuh lost a sight of blood.”

  “I’ve got to get out of here!” Ward said suddenly. “I’ve got to see Ruth Kermitt!”

  “Yuh better sit tight an’ get well,” Quayle said drily. “She’s right busy with that Yount hombre. Rides with him all over the range. Holdin’ hands more’n half the time. Everybody’s seen ’em! If she fired the rest of her boys, she shore wouldn’t want no foreman back!”

  McQueen looked at Quayle. “Say! Where do you fit into this deal?”

  Charlie Quayle shrugged. “I rode for Chait, like I told yuh. Yount rooked him out of his ranch, but Chait was glad to get shet of it. But when Yount found out what a heap of sand he got he was some sore. Me, I’d save me nigh on a year’s wages and was fixin’ to set up for myself. One of them rannies of Yount’s saw the money, and they trailed me down. Said it was ranch money. We had us a fight, and they winged me. I got away and holed up in this here canyon.”

  CHAPTER THREE: Stacked Deck

  All day McQueen rested in the cave. After dark, Quayle left the cave. He was gone for hours, but when he returned, he was eager to talk.

  “That Yount,” he said, “takin’ over the country! He went into Mannerhouse last night lookin’ for Gelvin, but he’d gone off with some stranger friend of his’n. This Yount had some words with Dave Cormack, and killed him. They do say this here. Yount is fast as greased lightnin’ with a gun!

  “Then Red Lund and Pete Dodson pistol-whipped Logan Keane. Yount, he told ’em he was ramroddin’ the Tumblin’ K, and was goin’ to marry Ruth Kermitt, and he was sick of the talk goin’ around about him and his men. They’ve got that town treed, believe you me!”

  Ruth to marry Jim Yount! Ward McQueen felt a sudden emptiness inside him. He knew then that he was in love with Ruth. In fact, as he thought of it, he had been in love with her for a long time. And now she was to marry Yount! A crooked gambler and ramrod of a gunslick gang of outlaws!

  It didn’t seem possible. Lying there on the pallet, he shook his head as if to clear it of the whole idea.

  “See anything of Sartain?” he demanded.

  “No,” Quayle admitted, “but hear tell he drifted over into the Newtons with Fox and that Baldy hombre.”

  The next day, Ward was up with daybreak. He rolled out of the blankets. His head still ached, but he felt better. His long period of illness had at least given him time to rest, and his strength was enough to help him recuperate rapidly. He oiled his guns and reloaded them. Quayle eyed his preparations thoughtfully, and said nothing until McQueen began to pull on his boots.

  “Better wait till sundown if yuh’re goin’ out huntin’ trouble,’ he said. “I got yuh a hoss. Got him hid down the canyon in the brush.”

  “A hoss?” Ward’s eyes glinted. “Good for you, old-timer! I’m goin’ up to have a look-see at the ranch. This deal don’t figger right to me.”

  “Nor me.” Quayle knocked out his pipe. “I seen that gal’s face today. They rid past me as I lay in the brush. She shore didn’t look happy like she was with no man she loved. Mebbe she ain’t willin’.”

  “That’s a thought.” Ward nodded. “Well, tonight I ride.”

  “We ride!” Quayle insisted. “I don’t like gettin’ shot up no better than you-all. I’m in this fight, too.”

  “Thanks,” McQueen said grimly. “I can use help, but what yuh might do is try to trail down Kim Sartain and the others. Get ’em back here for a showdown.”

  Where Quayle had picked up the little buckskin McQueen did not know or care. He needed a horse desperately, and the buckskin was a horse. Whatever Yount’s game was he had been fast and thorough. He had moved in on the Tumbling K, had had Ward McQueen drygulched, had had Miss Kermitt fire her old hands, and then, riding into Mannerhouse, had quieted all outward opposition by killing one man and beating another.

  Tennessee, too, had been killed. Jim Yount had shown himself to be fast, ruthless, and quick of decision. And as he acted with the real or apparent consent of Ruth Kermitt, there was nothing to be done by any of the townspeople in the little village of Mannerhouse.

  Probably none were inclined to do anything. There was no personal gain for anyone in bucking the killers Yount had around him. Obviously, the gambler was in complete control of the situation. He had erred in only two things—in failing to track down and kill Charlie Quayle and in thinking McQueen was dead, instead of making certain of it.

  The buckskin was a quick-stepping little horse with a liking for the trail. Ward headed out toward the Tumbling K. Quayle had left earlier in the day, starting back into the Newtons to hunt for Kim. Baldy and Bud were good cowhands, but the slim, darkfaced youngster, Kim Sartain, was one of the fastest gunhands Ward had ever seen, and he had a continual drive toward trouble. Never beginning any fight, he loved a battle.

  “With him,” Ward told the buckskin, “I’d tackle an army!”

  He left the buckskin in a clump of willows near the stream, then crossed it on stepping stones, and worked his way through the greasewood toward the Tumbling K ranch house.

  He had no plan of action. He had nothing on which to base such a plan. If he could find Ruth and talk to her, or if he could figure out something of the plan on which Yount was operating, that would be a beginning.

  The windows shone bright as he neared the house. For a long time he lay behind a clump of greasewood and studied the situation. An error now would be fatal. Quick and sudden death would be all that awaited him.

  There would be someone around, he was sure. Yount had no reason to expect trouble, for he seemed to have quieted all opposition with neatness and dispatch. Yet the gambler was a careful man.

  A cigarette gleamed suddenly from the steps of the bunkhouse. Somebody was seated there, on guard or just having a smoke.

  Ward worked to the left until the house was between them, then he got up and moved swiftly to the wall of the house. He eased up to the window. It was a warm night, and the window was open at the bottom.

  Jim Yount was playing solitaire at the dining room table. Red Lund was oiling a pistol. Packer was leaning his elbows on the table watching Yount’s cards and smoking.

  “I
always wanted a ranch,” Yount was saying, “and this is it. No use gallivantin’ around the country when a man can hole up and live in style. I’d of had it over the Newtons if that durned sand bed I got from Chait had been any good. Then I seen this place—it was too good to be true.

  “Yuh shore worked fast,” Packer agreed. “And it was plumb lucky that Hollier and me got that McQueen. I hear tell he was a plumb salty hombre.”

  Yount shrugged. “Mebbe. All sorts of stories get started. He might have been fast with a gun, but he didn’t have brains. It would take brains to win out.” He glanced up at Lund. “Look,” he said. “Logan Keane has that spread south of Hosstail Creek. Nice piece of land, thousands of acres with good water, runnin’ right up to Mannerhouse. Keane’s all scared now. Once this girl and me are married so the title to this place is cinched, we’ll go to work on Keane. We’ll rustle his stock, run off his hands, and force him to sell. I reckon we can do the whole job in a month, at the outside.” Red glanced up from his pistol.

  “You get the ranches,” he said. “Where do I come in?”

  Yount smiled. “You don’t want a ranch,” he said, “I do. Well, I happen to know where Ruth Kermitt’s got her money cached. There’s ten thousand in the lot. You boys”—for a moment his eyes held those of Red Lund—“can split that up among yuh. I reckon yuh can work out some way of dividin’ it even up!”

  Lund’s eyes glinted with understanding. Watching, McQueen glanced quickly at Packer, but the big horse thief showed no sign of having seen the exchange of glances. Ward could see, only too plainly, how the money would be divided. It would be a split made by Red Lund’s six-guns. The others got lead, he got the cash.

  It had the added advantage to Jim Yount of having only one actual witness to his own treachery.

  Crouched in the darkness below the window, Ward McQueen calculated his chances. Jim Yount was reputed to be a fast man with a gun. Red Lund had proved himself so. Packer would be good, even if not the flash artist the other two were. Three to one in this case made odds much too long. And at the bunkhouse were Hollier and Pete Dodson, neither one a man to trifle with.