Showdown Read online

  He and Wes had ridden together, hunted together, fought Indians together. Wes was younger, and Bat Chavez had always considered himself the other’s sponsor, as well as his friend. Now Wes was dead, and to Bat Chavez that opened a feud that could only be settled by blood.

  Johnny Stark and Lew Murray were like-minded. Both were young, hardy, and accustomed to live by the gun. They understood men like Zapata. Of the three, perhaps the only one who rated anything like an even break with Zapata was the half-Mexican, half-Irish Chavez. However, no one of them would have hesitated to draw on sight.

  They weren’t looking for trouble, but they were ready. In that frame of mind they started down the valley to move some of the cattle away from the mouth of Poplar Cañon. No one of them knew what he was riding into, and had they known, no one of them would have turned back ….

  *

  Mort Harper, seated in his own living quarters in the back of the saloon, was disturbed. Things had not gone as he had planned. Secure in his familiarity with men of Hardy Bishop’s type, he had been positive that the arrival of the wagon train and the beginning of their settlement would precipitate trouble. He had counted on a sudden attack by Bishop and perhaps the killing of one or more of the settlers. Nothing more, he knew, would have been required to unite them against the common enemy. Peace-loving they might be, but they were men of courage and men who believed in independence and equal rights for all. Typically American, they wouldn’t take any pushing around.

  On his knowledge of their character and that of Bishop he had built his plans. Over a year before he had seen Bishop’s Valley, and the sight had aroused a lust for possession that he had never known could live within him. Since that day he had lived for but one thing—to possess Bishop’s Valley, regardless of cost.

  It was beyond the reach of law. Few people in the country had any idea the valley existed or that it had been settled. His first thought was to ride in with a strong band of outlaws recruited from the off scourings of the border towns and take the place by main force, but times, he knew, were changing.

  Morton Harper was shrewd enough to understand that the fight might arouse government inquiry. Frémont and Carson knew this country, and it was possible the Army might soon move into it. It would behoove him to have justice on his side.

  The wagon trains offered that chance. From the first he had seen what a good chance it was. At the fort he watched them go through, and he saw the weariness of the women and children, the haggard lines of the men’s faces. The novelty of the trip was over, and miles upon miles remained before they could reach their final destination. Now, if he could but get some of them into the valley country, he believed he could persuade them, by some method, to stay on. With that end in view, he watched until he saw the wagon train he wanted.

  Those who were led by able and positive men he avoided. He talked to a number, but when he encountered Cap Mulholland, he was quick to perceive his opportunity.

  In his visit to the camp he noted that Tom Crockett was a mild, tolerant man, friendly, and interested mainly in finding a new home and getting a plow into the ground. George Pagones was a strong, able man, but not outspoken, or likely to push himself into a position of leadership.

  Pike Purcell and Lamport were honest, able men, but ignorant and alike in their dislike of Rock Bannon. Lamport, who was unmarried and thoroughly undesirable, had fancied himself for an inside track with Sharon Crockett until Bannon joined the train.

  As Rock Bannon was constantly with her, first as a wounded man needing care and later as a rider, Lamport grew jealous. Purcell, married to a nagging wife, had looked after Sharon with desire. His own dislike of Bannon stemmed from the same source, but grew even more bitter because Pike sensed Bannon was the better man. Pike hated him for it.

  Mort Harper was quick to curry the favor of these two. He talked with them, flattered them in subtle fashion, and bought them drinks. He learned that Purcell was desperately hard up and lent him some money. He gave Lamport a gun he had admired.

  The only flaw in the picture had been Rock Bannon, and, in Rock, Harper was quick to recognize a formidable and dangerous antagonist. He also realized he had an excellent weapon in the veiled enmity of Purcell and Lamport.

  His plans had gone ahead very well until an attack by Bishop failed to materialize. Despite himself, he was disturbed. Would the old man really let them settle there? He caused a few cattle to be killed for meat and left evidence about. That Rock Bannon had found the remains of the slaughtered cattle and buried them, he could not know. The expected attack failed to come and he sensed a falling away from him on the part of the settlers.

  The only way he could hope to get the valley was by precipitating open warfare, killing all of the Bishop forces, and taking possession. Then in due time he could eliminate the settlers themselves and reign supreme, possessor of one of the largest cattle empires in the country.

  Pete Zapata was under no orders to kill, but the fact that he had killed Wes Freeman fell in line with Harper’s plans. Yet he could sense the disaffection among the settlers. Crockett and Pagones could be a strong force against him if they became stubborn. Something was needed to align them firmly on his side.

  That chance came, as he had hoped it would come. With Pete Zapata, Hy Miller, Pike Purcell, Lamport, and Collins, he was riding down into the valley when they saw Bat Chavez and the two Bishop riders approaching. Had Harper continued with his party along the trail on which they had started, the paths of the two groups would not have intersected, but Harper reined in and waited.

  Chavez wasn’t the man to ride around trouble. In Lew Murray and Johnny Stark he had two companions who had never ridden around anything that even resembled trouble. With guns loosened in holsters they rode on.

  “Howdy!” Bat Chavez said. His eyes swung and fastened on Pete Zapata. “Where you ridin’?”

  “Who’s askin’?” Purcell demanded truculently. “We go where we want.”

  “Not on this range, you don’t! You stick to your valley. This here’s Bishop range.”

  “He own everything?” Miller demanded. “We ride where we please!”

  “Looks like you been ridin’ where somebody else pleased,” Johnny Stark said, grinning. “In fact, that face looks like somebody rid all over you with spikes in his boots.”

  Miller’s face flamed. “There was three of ’em!” he snapped. “You couldn’t do it. I think it’s time we taught you Bishop riders a lesson, anyways.”

  “You mean,” Chavez demanded insolently, “like that murderin’ Zapata killed Wes Freeman … in the back?”

  Zapata’s hand flashed for his gun, and Chavez was scarcely slower. Only the jerk of Zapata’s horse’s head saved him, as the horse took the bullet right through the head. It leaped straight up into the air, jerking Zapata’s gun and spoiling his aim.

  There was a sudden flurry of gunshots, and Mort Harper was quick to sense his chance. He drew his six-shooter and calmly shot Collins through the back.

  The attack broke as quickly as it had begun. Zapata’s horse had leaped and then hit the ground, stone dead. Thrown from the horse, Zapata had lost his gun and sprawled in the grass, showing no desire to get up and join the fight or even hunt for his gun.

  Outnumbered, and with Lew Murray shot through the leg, the Bishop riders drew off. Purcell had been burned along the cheek, and Miller’s horse was killed, so the battle ended after only a few seconds with two horses and one man dead. In the excitement, only Mort Harper had seen the flare of pained astonishment and accusation in Collins’s eyes.

  The blacksmith’s mouth refused to shape words, and he died there in the grass. Harper looked down at him, a faint smile on his face. Collins had been a popular man, quiet and well-liked. This would do what all Harper’s other plans had failed to do.

  “Collins got it.” Pike stood over him, his hard face saddened. “He was a good man.” Collins was the only man in the wagon train Pike Purcell had known before the trip began. They had come thr
ough the war together.

  “Might as well bury him, I guess,” Mort said.

  Pike looked up. “No, we’ll tote him back home. His widow will be wantin’ to see him. Reckon it’ll go hard with her.”

  Mort Harper’s lips thinned, but there was nothing more he could say without arousing suspicion. Silently the little cavalcade started back. Collins’s body was tied to Pike’s horse, and Pike walked alongside, trailed by Zapata and Miller.

  *

  For two days ominous quiet hung over the town of Poplar. Collins had been buried, and the faces of the settlers as they gathered about to see his body lowered into the grave proved to Harper how right he had been. No longer was there any doubt or hesitation. Now they were in the fight. He had walked back from that grave filled with triumph. Only a few days longer, and then he would begin the war in earnest.

  Tom Crockett was a quiet man, but his face was stern and hard as he walked back home beside Sharon.

  “Well, we tried to avoid it, but now it’s war,” he said. “I think the sooner we have some action the better.”

  Sharon said nothing, but her heart was heavy within her. She no longer thought of Mort Harper. His glamour had faded, and, always now, there was but one man in her thoughts, the tall, shy, hesitant Rock Bannon.

  She always marveled that a man so hard, so sure of himself when with men, horses, or guns, could be so quiet and diffident with women. As a matter of fact, Rock Bannon had never seen any woman but an Indian squaw until he was eighteen years old, in Santa Fe.

  Rock Bannon had never talked to a woman until he was twenty. In his life until now, and he was twenty-seven, he had probably talked to no more than six or seven women or girls.

  With deepening sadness and pain, she realized that the killing of Collins had done all they had hoped to avoid. There would be war now, and, knowing her father as she did, she knew the unrelenting stubbornness in him once he was resolved upon a course.

  She had seen him like this before. He always sought to avoid trouble, always saw the best in people, yet when the battle line was laid down, no man would stay there longer than Tom Crockett.

  Only one man was silent on the walk back from the grave. Dud Kitchen, weak and pale from his own narrow escape, was out for the first time. He was very tired, and he was glad when he was back in the Pagoneses’ house and could lie down and rest. He was up too soon, he knew that, but Collins had been his friend. Now, lying alone in the gathering darkness and hearing the low mutter of men’s voices in the other room, he was sorry he had gone.

  He had been over to the Collinses’ house to see his old friend once before he was buried, and he was there when the widow and Satterfield had dressed him in his Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. He saw something then that filled the whole inside of him with horror. He saw not only that Collins had been shot in the back, but something more than that, and it was that thing that disturbed him.

  Dud Kitchen was a friendly, cheerful young man who liked nothing better than to sing and play the mandolin. Yet in his life from Missouri to Texas, he had had more than a little experience with guns. Once, too, he had gone down the river to New Orleans, and he had learned things on that trip.

  Among other things, he knew that the Dragoon Colt had the impact of an axe and would blow a hole in a man big enough to run a buffalo through, or so it was phrased on the frontier. The hole in Collins had been small at the point of entry, but it had been wide and ugly at the point of exit.

  Opening the door between the living room and the kitchen of the Pagoneses’ house, Pike walked in to look down at Dud. “Better get yourself well, Dud,” Pike said. “We’ll need all hands for this fuss.”

  “Was it bad, Pike?” Kitchen asked. His voice was faint, and in the dim light Pike could not see what lay in the younger man’s eyes.

  “No, I figger it wasn’t so bad,” Pike said. “Shots were fired. But it was over so quick I scarce got my gun out. That Bat Chavez, him and Zapata were fastest, but Pete’s horse swung around and spoiled his aim for him. Guess it saved his life, though, ’cause Bat’s bullet hit the horse right in the head. Between the eyes.

  “The horse reared up and throwed Pete, and I jumped my horse away to keep from gettin’ in a tangle. Lamport, he scored a shot on one of them other fellers. We seen him jerk and seen the blood on him as they were ridin’ off.”

  Dud Kitchen waited for a long moment, and then he said carefully: “Who killed Collins?”

  Purcell seemed to scowl. “Don’t rightly know. Might have been any one of them three. Don’t you worry about that. We’ll get all three of them, so we won’t miss gettin’ the right one.”

  “Have they got good guns?” Dud asked. “I’ll bet they have.”

  “Same as us. Dragoon Colts. One of ’em had an old Walker, though. Big gun, too. Shoots like a rifle.”

  After Pike Purcell was gone, Dud Kitchen lay alone in the dark room, thinking. His thoughts frightened him, and yet he was himself down from a shot by Zapata, who was on their own side. Collins had been shot in the back.

  Whatever he had been shot by, Dud Kitchen was willing to take an oath it had not been by either a Walker or a Dragoon Colt. The hole was much too small, although the chest of the man had been frightfully torn. Sometimes men cut their bullets off flat across the nose to make them kill better. Dud had seen that done. It usually tore a man up pretty bad.

  Chapter Six

  Johnny Stark brought the news of the fight to Rock Bannon. He was with Bishop at the time, and the old man’s face hardened.

  “Well, there it is, Rock. We can’t give them any more time now. They’ve had their chance, and from now on she’ll be open warfare.” Bishop looked up at Stark. “Take six men back with you. Have Monty go with the buckboard and bring Lew here to the ranch house where he can have proper care. You tell Red I want to see him, but he’ll be in charge when he goes back.”

  Rock got up and paced the floor. He ran his fingers through his shock of black, curly hair. His face was stern and hard. He knew what this meant. One man had gone down, Johnny said. From his description of the man it would be Collins, one of the good men. That would serve to unite the settlers in a compact lot. Despite all his desires to avoid trouble, they were in for it now, and it would be a case of dog eat dog. What would Sharon think of all this?

  Hastily he computed the numbers at the town site. Their numbers were still slightly inferior to those on the Bishop Ranch, but, because of expected Indian trouble and the stock, many of the Bishop hands must remain on the far ranges.

  “I’m going out,” he said at last. “I’m going down to Poplar. Also, I’m going to have a look in that cañon where Harper’s stuff was cached.”

  “You watch yourself, boy,” Bishop said. He heaved himself up in his chair. “You take care. I’m figurin’ on you havin’ this ranch, and I ain’t wantin’ to will it to no corpse.”

  Rock hurried down to the corral and saw Johnny Stark leading out the steel-dust, all saddled and ready.

  “I figured you’d be ridin’, Rock,” he said grimly. He handed the reins to him and started to turn away, but then he stepped back. “Rock,” he said, “something I been meanin’ to tell somebody. I forgot to mention it back there. I don’t think any of us killed Collins.”

  Bannon wheeled and grabbed the cowhand by the arm. His eyes were like steel.

  “What do you mean? Give it to me quick!”

  “Hey!” Johnny said. “Ease up on that arm.” He grinned. “You got a grip like a bear trap.” He rubbed his arm. “But I been thinkin’ about that ever since the fight. Bat, he was thinkin’ only of Zapata. I shot at that Miller, the guy you whupped. I got his horse. Lew, he burned that long, lean mountain man along the cheek, tryin’ for a head shot. Actually this here Collins hombre was off to our left. None of us shot that way.”

  “You’re sure about that?” Bannon demanded.

  His mind was working swiftly. If one thing would arouse anger against Bishop among the settlers, it would be the kil
ling of one of their own number, and particularly one so well liked as Collins had been.

  Bannon stared at the rider. “Did you see anybody near him? Who was over at that side?”

  “This here Collins hombre who got shot, he was in the front rank,” Johnny said. “Then there was a heavy-set, sandy sort of guy with a beard and a tall hombre with a white hat with a dark coat.”

  The bearded man would be Lamport. The man in the white hat was Mort Harper.

  Rock Bannon swung a leg over the saddle. “Johnny, you tell Red to sit tight,” he said. “I’m riding to Poplar.”

  “Want me along?” Stark asked eagerly. “You better take some help. Those hombres are killin’ now. They are in a sweat, all of them.”

  Rock shook his head. “No, I’ll go it alone,” he said. “Tell Red to wait at the cabin.”

  Rock wheeled the steel-dust and cut across the valley. There was still a chance to avoid a battle if he could get to Poplar in time, yet he had a feeling that Harper would not wait. Hostilities had begun, and that was what he had been playing for all the time. Now he had his excuse to wipe out the Bishop forces, and he would be quick to take advantage of it.

  Before he was halfway down the valley, he reined in on the slope of a low hill. Miles to the south he could see a group of horsemen cutting across toward the line cabin. Bat Chavez was there alone with the wounded Murray.

  Red would be starting soon, but would get there too late to help Bat or Murray. Within a matter of a half hour they would be attacking. From where he was, it would take him all of that time and probably more to reach them. There was no time to go back. Wheeling the steel-dust, he started down the valley, angling away from the group of riders.

  In the distance around the peaks towering against the sky, dark clouds were banking. A jagged streak of lightning ripped the horizon to shreds of flame and then vanished, and there was a distant roll of thunder muttering among the dark and distant ravines like the echoes of a far-away battle.