Novel 1955 - Heller With A Gun (v5.0) Page 2

  He rolled his bed and saddled up, then drank the rest of the coffee.

  Mounting, he rode back to where the man lay. The fellow was conscious, but he looked bad.

  “Where’s your horse?”

  Too weak to fight, the man whispered an answer, and Mabry rode to the clay bank behind some trees, where he found a beat-up buckskin, more dead than alive.

  Mabry saddled him after brushing off the snow and rubbing some semblance of life into the horse with a handful of rough brown grass.

  When he got back to the man’s shelter he picked the fellow up and shook him. “Get up on that horse,” he said. “We’ll start for Hat Creek. Make a wrong move and I’ll blow you out of the saddle.”

  He took the blankets and threw them around the man to keep in what warmth his body could develop.

  It would be cold tonight, but with luck he could make Hat Creek Station.

  Wind flapped his hat brim and snow sifted across the trail. He lifted the black into a trot. The country about them was white and still. In the distance he could see a line of trees along another creek.

  His mind was empty. He did not think. Only the occasional tug on the lead rope reminded him of the man who rode behind him.

  It was a hard land, and it bred hard men to hard ways.

  Chapter 2

  KING MABRY FOLLOWED Old Woman Creek to Hat Creek Station in the last cold hour of a bitterly cold day.

  Under the leafless cottonwoods whose bare branches creaked with cold he drew rein. His breath clouded in the cold air, and as his eyes took in the situation his fingers plucked absently at the thin ice that had accumulated on his scarf.

  He was a man who never rode without caution, never approached a strange place without care.

  There were no tracks but those from the station to the barn. There was no evidence of activity but the slow smoke rising from the chimney.

  One thing was unexpected. Drawn alongside the barn were two large vans, and beneath the coating of frost bright-colored lettering was visible. He could not, at this distance, make out the words.

  Nobody emerged as he approached the station. No door opened. There was no sign of welcome.

  Everything was still in the bitter evening cold; even the rising smoke seemed stiff in the unfamiliar air.

  Hat Creek Station had originally been built by soldiers sent to establish a post on Hat Creek in Nebraska. Unfamiliar with the country, they had crossed into Wyoming and built on Sage Creek. When abandoned by the Army, it became a stage station on the route from Cheyenne to Black Hills, and a post office. From the beginning its history had been wild and bloody.

  Mabry knew the stories. They had come down the trails as all such stories did, from campfire to card table, from bunkhouse to chuck wagon.

  It was at Hat Creek that Stutterin’ Brown, a stage-company man, emerged second best from a pistol argument with Persimmons Bill over stolen horses. They buried Brown.

  A party of freighters bound for the Black Hills was attacked by several hundred Indians near Hat Creek Station, and was saved only by the arrival of a troop of cavalry from Rawhide Buttes.

  Near a place known locally as Robbers’ Roost, a few miles from the station, there had been a series of holdups, and it was near there that Boone May, a shotgun guard, killed an outlaw.

  Hat Creek Station was a convenient wayside stop for travelers from Cheyenne to Black Hills, and at one time or another most of the noted characters and gun fighters of the West had passed through.

  It was here that Calamity Jane was fired from her job as a government packer, for drunkenness. And here, at various times, had stopped such men as Wild Bill Hickok, Wyatt Earp, Sam Bass, Joel Collins, Scott Davis, Seth Bullock, Big-Nose George, and Lame Bradley.

  In short, the patrons of Hat Creek Station were men with the bark on.

  Swinging around the barn to the door, Mabry stepped from the saddle, pulled the pin from the latch, and, swinging wide the door, herded the two horses in ahead of him. Then he pulled the door shut and fastened it securely.

  Standing behind his horse, he remained there until his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness within the vast barn. When he could see again, he located an unoccupied stall and stripped the saddle and bridle from the black.

  Then he untied the wounded man from the saddle of the buckskin and helped him to the ground.

  The man wilted then, scarcely able to keep his legs under him.

  “Can you walk?”

  The man looked at him sullenly. “I can walk.”

  “Then you’re on your own. You cross my trail again and I’ll finish the job.”

  The man turned and staggered to the door, almost fell there, but caught at the door to hold his balance. Then he pushed it open and walked out into the snow.

  Mabry turned back to his horse and carefully rubbed him down, working over him patiently and with care.

  Somewhere a door closed and Mabry heard a man coming down the wide aisle between the two rows of stalls.

  The hostler was a tall man with an unusually small face, very round and clean shaved.

  He halted, staring into the darkness of the stall where Mabry worked.

  “Come far?”

  “No.”

  The hostler puffed on his pipe. He had never seen this man before and it was indiscreet to ask questions, but the hostler was a curious man—and he knew that beat-up buckskin.

  He gestured. “Ain’t in good shape.”

  “Better shape than the man who rode him.”

  Griffin, the hostler remembered, was considered a very salty customer in some circles. He must have cut himself into the wrong circle.

  “He has friends.”

  “You?”

  “Shuckins, man. I’m just hostler here. Knowed Pete, like most folks.”

  Mabry had removed the scarf from around his hat and the sheepskin coat hung open. The hostler had seen the guns.

  “Admire to know what happened.”

  Mabry picked up his rifle and saddlebags with his left hand. He did not exactly gesture, but the hostler decided not to leave any room for doubt. He preceded Mabry to the door.

  When they reached it, Mabry said, “He laid for me.”

  The hostler had suspected for a long time that Griffin was one of that crowd. Knew it, in fact, without having a particle of information. So he laid for the wrong man.

  Mabry stepped out into the cold. The thermometer beside the door read forty degrees below zero.

  “Man around called Benton. Him an’ Joe Noss. They’re partial to Pete Griffin.”

  “Thanks.”

  Snow crunched under his boots as he crossed to the station and lifted the latch. He pushed open the door and stepped into the hot, smoke-filled air of the room.

  There was a smell of rank tobacco and drying wool, a shuffling of feet and a riffling of cards. The potbellied stove glowed with heat and five men sat around a table playing poker with several onlookers. All the seated men had removed their coats. They wore wool shirts and suspenders.

  From an adjoining room there was a rattle of dishes, and Mabry saw another door that led off to the left of the bar. He remained where he was, taking time to study the occupants of the room. His open coat revealed the guns, and he wore no glove on his right hand.

  Somebody coughed and somebody else said, “I’ll take three cards.” Chips clicked, feet shuffled.

  Alone at the bar was a man who wore a cloth coat, narrow at the waist with a wide fur collar. He had a round fur cap on his head, the earlaps turned up and tied on top. He glanced at Mabry, frankly curious.

  There was nobody in the room that Mabry knew until the bartender turned around.

  Mabry crossed to the bar and put his saddlebags on top, leaning the Winchester against the bar.

  The bartender’s face was flushed. He glanced quickly, guiltily around, then touched his lips with his tongue. He was obviously worried and nervous.

  “’Lo, King. I—”

  Something that might have b
een amusement flickered briefly in the big man’s eyes. He stared gravely at the bartender. “Know your face, but…What was that name again?”

  “Williams.” The man spoke hastily, his relief obvious. “Bill Williams.”

  “Sure. Sorry I forgot.”

  The bartender ducked below bar level and came up with a square, dusty bottle. “Little o’ the Irish. On the house.”

  Mabry accepted the bottle without comment and filled a glass. He lifted it, sighting through the amber whisky to catch the light.

  “Has the smell o’ the peat, that Irish does.”

  Mabry glanced briefly at the man in the fur-collared coat, then pushed the bottle toward him.

  “The name’s Healy. Tom Healy, of the Healy Traveling Shows.” He lifted the whisky, treasuring it in his hand. “The best they’d offer me was barrel whisky.”

  They drank, replacing their glasses on the bar. Mabry let his eyes canvass the room, probing for possible trouble. A man remained alive by knowing what to expect and what direction to expect it from. And there was a man near the card table with a long, narrow face filled with latent viciousness. He stood near a slack-jawed man with shifty eyes.

  The man in the fur-collared coat spun a gold coin on the bar and refilled their glasses.

  In the momentary stillness of the room the sound of the coin was distinct and clear. Heads turned and eyes held on the coin, then lifted to the face of the man in the fur collar. An Eastern face, an Eastern man, a tenderfoot. And then their eyes went naturally to Mabry, and seemed to pause.

  “Easy with that gold, mister.” Mabry lifted his glass. “Maybe half the men in this room would slit your throat for it.”

  Healy’s smile was friendly, yet faintly taunting. “I’m green, friend, but not that green. Even if I’m Irish.”

  Mabry tossed off the whisky. “You fork your own broncs in this country,” he said, and turned abruptly away.

  He took up his rifle and saddlebags and stepped out toward the adjoining room, and then he missed a stride and almost stopped, for a girl had just come into the room.

  She walked with quick, purposeful steps, but as their eyes met her step faltered, too. Then she caught herself and went on by, leaving him with a flashing memory of red-gold hair and a gray traveling dress whose like he had not seen since Richmond. He opened the inner door and entered the hallway beyond. Away from the fire, it was cold.

  Along the hall on one side were four doors. These he surmised led to separate rooms. On the left side was one door, which he opened. This led to a long room lined with tiers of bunks, three high. The room would sleep thirty. Choosing an empty bunk near the door, he dumped his gear.

  He shucked his sheepskin coat, then his belt and gun. The second gun stayed in his waistband.

  City girl…must be with the Healy show. Her eyes had looked into his, straight and clean. Not boldly, but with assurance and self-possession. She was all woman, that one. And a lady.

  None of his affair.

  His thoughts reverted to the men in the room. Dispassionately, yet with knowledge born of long experience, he could see what would happen. Within thirty minutes or less Griffin’s friends would know he had come in and under what circumstances. What happened then would depend on how far they would go for a friend.

  Not far…unless it would serve their own ends, or one of them was building a reputation.

  Or unless the man with the narrow face was one of them. That one had a devil riding him. He would kill.

  If the weather broke by daybreak he would push on. He took the gun from his waistband and spun the cylinder. It was a solid, well-made gun. He returned it to his belt and walked back to the outer room.

  “How about grub?”

  Williams jerked his head toward an open door through which came the rattle of dishes. “Beef and beans, maybe more. Best cook this side of the IXL in Deadwood.”

  Mabry walked around the bar into a long room with two tables placed end to end. Benches lined either side. At the far end of the table near the fireplace Healy sat with the girl, and with a big man whom Mabry had not seen before.

  He was a man with a wide face and a geniality that immediately rubbed Mabry the wrong way. Better dressed than most of the men in the outer room, he held a fat black cigar between his fingers.

  “Take some doing, all right. But we can do it.”

  The big man was speaking. He glanced down the table at Mabry, who was helping himself to dishes that an aproned man had put before him. The big man lowered his voice, but it was still loud enough for Mabry to hear.

  “West out of here into the Wind River country. Then north. There’ll be fuel along the Big Horn.”

  “What about Indians?”

  The big man waved his cigar. “No trouble. Mostly Shoshones up thataway, and they’re friendly.”

  Healy made no comment, but he glanced at Mabry, who was eating in silence. Healy seemed about to speak, but changed his mind. Twice the girl looked at Mabry, and he was aware of her glance.

  The fellow was either a fool or a liar. Going up that valley was tough at any time, but in the dead of winter, with a woman along, it was asking for trouble. And with two loaded vans. As for Indians, the Shoshones were friendly, but there were roving bands of renegade Sioux who had taken to the rough country after the Custer fight and had never returned to the reservation. Only last week a couple of trappers out of Spearfish had been murdered up in the Big Horns. Their companions found their bodies and plenty of Indian sign. They lit out for Deadwood and the story had been familiar around town before Mabry took the outtrail. It was not the only case. Mabry had talked to them, had bought the black horse from them, in fact.

  “I’ll have my two men,” the big man said. “That will make four of us and the three women.”

  Three women.…

  And those renegade Sioux did not have their squaws with them.

  He filled his cup and put the coffeepot down. The girl glanced around and for an instant their eyes held, then she looked away.

  “Join us, friend?” Healy suggested.

  “Thanks,” Mabry said. “I don’t want to interrupt.”

  It was obvious that the big man was not pleased at the invitation. He was irritated, and shifted angrily on the bench.

  “We’re planning a trip,” Healy said. “You can help.”

  Only the irritation of the big man prompted him. Otherwise he would have stayed where he was. He shifted his food up the table and sat facing the big man and the girl.

  “King,” Healy said, “meet Janice Ryan. She’s with my troupe. And this is Andy Barker, who’s agreed to guide us to Alder Gulch.”

  “In this weather?”

  Barker’s face tightened. “I told them it wouldn’t be easy, but I know that trail.” He hesitated, then took a chance. “Do you?”

  “No.”

  Barker showed his relief. “Then I’m afraid you won’t be much use to us,” he said abruptly, “but thanks, anyway.”

  “I haven’t been over that trail, but I’ve been over a lot of others in bad weather.”

  Barker brushed the ash from his cigar, ignoring Mabry. “That’s about it. We can leave as soon as the weather breaks.”

  “You missed your count,” Healy said. “There’ll be another man.”

  Barker looked quickly at Mabry. “You?” Obviously the idea was distasteful to him.

  “No,” Healy said, “although we’d like to have him. I referred to the other man in our company, Doc Guilford.”

  “Oh.…All right.”

  Mabry tried his coffee and found it hot and strong. The room was very still. On the hearth the fire crackled briefly, then subsided. Barker drew on his cigar, seeming to want to leave, but hesitating, as if he disliked leaving them alone to talk to Mabry.

  Or was that, Mabry asked himself, his imagination? He might be letting an irrational dislike of the man influence his judgment. Mabry liked the coffee, and it warmed away the last of his chill. He liked sitting across the table fr
om Janice Ryan and could feel the sharp edge of her curiosity.

  “Take quite a while, a trip like that,” he ventured. “Better have plenty of grub and some spare horses.”

  “When we want your advice,” Barker said, “we’ll ask for it.”

  King Mabry lifted his eyes. He looked at Barker for a long time, then said quietly, “I’ve been asked,” he reminded him, “by him.” He indicated Healy. “Or do you have some reason for not wanting them to get advice from anyone else?”

  Barker stared at him, his lips tightening. He was about to speak when Williams came into the room.

  “Mabry,” he said quickly in a low tone, “watch yourself. Trouble making up.”

  “Thanks.”

  He saw startled comprehension in Barker’s eyes and saw the man grow faintly white around the eyes as he heard Mabry’s name.

  Trouble might mean that Griffin’s friends were going to take action. That could mean nothing to Barker, but the name obviously had. It had proved a severe jolt, by the look of him.

  “King…King Mabry.”

  “That’s the name.”

  Barker smiled stiffly. “Healy,” he said, “when you introduce a man, use his whole name. It might make a difference.”

  “The bartender called him King. It was the only name I knew.”

  “Does it matter so much?” Janice asked.

  “In this case, yes.” Barker chose his words with care, yet they carried the information he intended, and a warning. “King Mabry is a known man. They say he has killed fifteen men.”

  Mabry’s eyes were bleak. He gave Barker all his attention. “Not fifteen. Only eleven—not counting Indians.”

  Barker got up, smiling faintly, obviously feeling he had scored a point against Mabry. Yet as he turned to go, King Mabry spoke. The remark came from nowhere, unconsidered, unplanned. “One thing, Barker. They were all armed, and they were all facing me.”

  The big man stiffened, and the glance he threw over his shoulder at Mabry was malignant. Yet it held a probing, half-frightened curiosity, too.

  As he watched the man leave, Mabry’s mind caught at that final reaction. Somewhere, Mabry told himself, he’s shot a man in the back, or been accused of it.