Collection 1997 - End Of The Drive (v5.0) Page 9

“Books, I reckon. He reads a lot.”

  Powis nodded. “I guess so.” He looked around at the judge and scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully. “Seen anything more of Miss Kastelle?”

  “Remy?” The judge let the front legs of his chair down.

  “Uh-huh. She was in yesterday asking me if I’d heard if Brewster or McInnis were in town.”

  “I’ve lost some myself,” Collins said. “Too many. But Pete Miller says he can’t find any sign of them, and nobody else seems to.”

  “You know, Judge,” Powis said thoughtfully, “one time two or three years back I cut hair for a trapper. He was passing through on the stage, an’ stopped overnight. He told me he trapped in this country twenty years ago. Said there was some of the most beautiful valleys back behind the Highbinders anybody ever saw.”

  “Back in the Highbinders, was it?” Judge Collins stared thoughtfully at the distant, purple mountains. “That’s Finn Mahone’s country.”

  “That’s right,” Powis said.

  Judge Collins looked down the street for Doc Finerty. He scowled to himself, only too aware of what Powis was hinting. The vanishing cattle had to go somewhere. If there were pastures back in the Highbinders, it would be a good place for them to be hidden, and where they could stay hidden for years.

  That could only mean Finn Mahone.

  When he looked around again, he was pleased to see Doc Finerty had rounded the corner by the Longhorn Saloon and was cutting across the street toward him. The judge got up and strolled out to meet him and they both turned toward Mother Boyle’s.

  Doc Finerty was five inches shorter than Judge Gardner Collins’s lean six feet one inch. He was square built, but like many short, broad men he was quick moving and was never seen walking slow when by himself. He and the judge had been friends ever since they first met, some fifteen years before.

  Finerty was an excellent surgeon and a better doctor than would have been expected in a western town like Laird. In the hit-and-miss manner of the frontier country, he practiced dentistry as well.

  Judge Collins had studied law after leaving college, reading in the office of a frontier lawyer in Missouri. Twice, back in Kansas, he had been elected justice of the peace. In Laird his duties were diverse and interesting. He was the local magistrate. He married those interested, registered land titles and brands, and acted as a notary and general legal advisor.

  There were five men in Laird who had considerable academic education. Aside from Judge Collins and Doc Finerty there were Pierce Logan, the town’s mayor and one of the biggest ranchers; Dean Armstrong, editor and publisher of The Branding Iron; and Garfield Otis, who was, to put it less than mildly, a bum.

  “I’m worried, Doc,” the judge said, over their coffee. “Powis was hinting again that Finn Mahone might be rustling.”

  “You think he is?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “I doubt it. Still, you know how it is out here. Anything could be possible. He does have a good deal of money. More than he would be expected to have, taking it easy like he does.”

  “If it was me,” Doc said, “I’d look the other way. I’d look around that bunch up around Sonntag’s place.”

  “They are pretty bad, all right.” Judge Collins looked down at his coffee. “Dean was telling me that Byrn Sonntag killed a man over to Rico last week.”

  “Another?” Doc Finerty asked. “That’s three he’s killed this year. What was it you heard?”

  “Dean didn’t get much. He met the stage and Calkins told him. Said the man drew, but Sonntag killed him. Two shots, right through the heart.”

  “He’s bad. Montana Kerr and Banty Hull are little better. Miller says he can’t go after them unless they do something he knows about. If you ask me, he doesn’t want to.”

  Finerty finished his cup. “I don’t know as I blame him. If he did we’d need another marshal.”

  The door opened and they both looked up. The man who stepped in was so big he filled the door. His hair was long and hung around his ears, and he wore rugged outdoor clothing that, while used, was reasonably clean and of the best manufacture.

  He took off his hat as he entered, and they noted the bullet hole in the flat brim of the gray Stetson. His two guns were worn with their butts reversed for a cross draw, for easier access while riding and to accommodate their long barrels.

  “Hi, Doc! How are you, Judge?” He sat down beside them.

  “Hello, Finn! That mountain life seems to agree with you!” Doc said. “I’m afraid you’ll never give me any business.”

  Finn Mahone looked around and smiled quizzically. His lean brown face was strong, handsome in a rugged way. His eyes were green. “I came very near cashing in for good.” He gestured at the bullet hole. “That happened a few days ago over in the Highbinders.”

  “I didn’t think anybody ever went into that country but you. Who was it?” the judge asked.

  “No idea. It wasn’t quite my country. I was away over east, north of the Brewster place on the other side of Rawhide.”

  “Accident?” Finerty asked.

  Mahone grinned. “Does it look like it? No, I think I came on someone who didn’t want to be seen. I took out. Me, I’m not mad at anybody.”

  The door slammed open and hard little heels tapped on the floor. “Who owns that black stallion out here?”

  “I do,” Finn replied. He looked up, and felt the skin tighten around his eyes. He had never seen Remy Kastelle before. He had not even heard of her.

  She was tall, and her hair was like dark gold. Her eyes were brown, her skin lightly tanned. Finn Mahone put his coffee cup down slowly and half turned toward her.

  He had rarely seen so beautiful a woman, nor one so obviously on a mission.

  “I’d like to buy him!” she said. “What’s your price?”

  Finn Mahone was conscious of some irritation at her impulsiveness. “I have no price,” he said, “and the horse is not for sale.” A trace of a smile showed at the corners of his mouth.

  “Well,” she said, “I’ll give you five hundred dollars.”

  “Not for five thousand,” he said quietly. “I wouldn’t sell that horse any more…any more than your father would sell you.”

  She smiled at that. “He might…if the price was right,” she said. “It might be a relief to him!”

  She brushed on by him and sat down beside Judge Collins.

  “Judge,” she said, “what do you know about a man named Finn Mahone? Is he a rustler?”

  There was a momentary silence, but before the judge could reply, Finn spoke up. “I doubt it, ma’am. He’s too lazy. Rustlin’ cows is awfully hot work.”

  “They’ve been rustling cows at night,” Remy declared. “If you were from around here you would know that.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said mildly, “I guess I would. Only sometimes they do it with a runnin’ iron or a cinch ring. Then they do it by day. They just alter the brands a little with a burn here, an’ more there.”

  Finn Mahone got up. He said, “Ma’am, I reckon if I was going to start hunting rustlers in this country, I’d do it with a pen and ink.”

  He strolled outside, turning at the door as he put his hat on to look her up and down, very coolly, very impudently. Then he let the door slam after him. Across the room the back door of the restaurant opened as another man entered.

  Remy felt her face grow hot. She was suddenly angry. “Well! Who was that?” she demanded.

  “That was Finn Mahone,” Doc Finerty said gently.

  “Oh!” Remy Kastelle’s ears reddened.

  “Who?” The new voice cut across the room like a pistol shot. Texas Dowd was a tall man, as tall as Mahone or Judge Collins, but lean and wiry. His gray eyes were keen and level, his handlebar mustache dark and neatly twisted. He might have been thirty-five, but was nearer forty-five. He stood just inside the back door.

  Stories had it that Texas Dowd was a bad man with a gun. He had been in the Laird River country but two years,
and so far as anyone knew his gun had never been out of its holster. The Laird River country was beginning to know what Remy Kastelle and her father had found out, that Texas Dowd knew cattle. He also knew range, and he knew men.

  “Finn Mahone,” Judge Collins replied, aware that the name had found acute interest. “Know him?”

  “Probably not,” Dowd said. “He live around here?”

  “No, back in the Highbinders. I’ve never seen his place, myself. They call it Crystal Valley. It’s a rough sixty miles from here, out beyond your place.” He nodded to Remy.

  “Know where the Notch is? That rift in the wall?” Collins continued. “Well, the route to his place lies up that Notch. I’ve heard it said that no man should travel that trail at night, and no man by day who doesn’t know it. It’s said to be one of the most beautiful places in the world. Once in a while Mahone gets started talking about it, and he can tell you things…but that trail would make your hair stand on end.”

  “He come down here often?” Dowd asked carefully.

  “No. Not often. I’ve known three months to go by without us seeing him. His place is closer to Rico.” “Name sounded familiar,” Dowd said. He looked around at Remy. “Are you ready to go, ma’am?”

  “Mr. Dowd,” Remy said, her eyes flashing, “I want that black stallion Mahone rides. That’s the finest horse I ever saw!”

  “Miss Kastelle,” Finerty said, “don’t get an idea Mahone’s any ordinary cowhand or rancher. He’s not. If he said he wouldn’t sell that horse, he meant it. Money means nothing to him.”

  Judge Collins glanced at Finerty as the two went out. “Doc, I’ve got an idea Dowd knows something about Finn Mahone. You notice that look in his eye?”

  “Uh-huh.” Doc lit a cigar. “Could be, at that. None of us know much about him. He’s been here more than a year, too. Gettin’ on for two years. And he has a sight of money.”

  “Now don’t you be getting like Powis!” Judge Collins exclaimed. “I like the man. He’s quiet, and he minds his own business. He also knows a good thing when he sees it. I don’t blame Remy for wanting that horse. There isn’t a better one in the country!”

  * * *

  FINN MAHONE STRODE up the street to the Emporium. “Four boxes of forty-four rimfire,” he said.

  He watched while Harran got down the shells, but his mind was far away. He was remembering the girl. It had been a long time since he had seen a woman like that. Women of any kind were scarce in this country. For a moment, he stood staring at the shells, then he ordered a few other things, and gathering them up, went out to the black horse. Making a neat pack of them, he lashed them on behind the saddle. Then he turned and started across the street.

  He worried there was going to be trouble. He could feel it building up all around him. He knew there were stories being told about him, and there was that hole in his hat. There was little animosity yet, but it would come. If they ever got back into the Highbinders and saw how many cattle he had, all hell would break loose.

  Stopping for a moment in the sunlight in front of the Longhorn, he finished his cigarette. “Mahone?”

  He turned.

  Garfield Otis was a thin man, not tall, with a scholar’s face. He had been a teacher once, a graduate of a world-famous university, a writer of intelligent but unread papers on the Battles of Belarius and the struggle for power in France during the Middle Ages. Now he was a hanger-on around barrooms, drunk much of the time, kept alive by a few odd jobs and the charity of friends.

  He had no intimates, yet he talked sometimes with Collins or Finerty, and more often with young Dean Armstrong, the editor of The Branding Iron. Armstrong had read Poe, and he had read Lowell, and had read Goethe and Heine in the original German. He quickly sensed much of the story behind Otis. He occasionally bought him drinks, often food.

  Otis, lonely and tired, also found friendship in the person of Lettie Mason, whose gambling hall was opposite the Town Hall, and Finn Mahone, the strange rider from the Highbinder Hills.

  “How are you, Otis?” Finn said, smiling. “Nice morning, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Otis responded. He passed a trembling hand over his unshaven chin. “Finn, be careful. They are going to make trouble for you.”

  “Who?” Finn’s eyes were intent.

  “I was down at Lettie’s. Alcorn was there. He’s one of those ranchers from out beyond Rawhide. One of the bunch that runs with Sonntag. He said you were a rustler.”

  “Thanks, Otis.” Finn frowned thoughtfully. “I reckoned something like that was comin’. Who was with him?”

  “Big man named Leibman. Used to be a sort of a bruiser on the docks in New York. Lettie doesn’t take to him.”

  “She’s a good judge of men.” Finn hitched up his gun belts. “Reckon I’ll trail out of town, Otis. Thanks again.”

  At Lettie’s he might have a run-in with some of the bunch from Rawhide, and he was not a trouble hunter. He knew what he was when aroused, and knew what could happen in this country. Scouting the hills as he always did, he had a very good idea of just what was going on. There was time for one drink, then he was heading out. He turned and walked into the Longhorn.

  Red Eason was behind the bar himself this morning. He looked up as Mahone entered, and Finn noticed the change in his eyes.

  “Rye,” Finn said. He waited, his hands on the bar while the drink was poured. He was conscious of low voices in the back of the saloon and glanced up. Two men were sitting there at one of the card tables. One was a slender man of middle age with a lean, high-boned face. He was unshaven, and his eyes were watchful. The other was a big man, even bigger than Mahone was himself. The man’s face was wide and flat, and his nose had been broken.

  The big man got up from the table and walked toward him. At that moment the outer door opened and Dean Armstrong came in with Doc Finerty and Judge Collins. They halted as they saw the big man walking toward Mahone.

  Armstrong’s quick eyes shifted to Banty Hull. The small man was seated in a chair half behind the corner of the bar. If Mahone turned to face the big man who Armstrong knew to be named Leibman, his back would be toward Hull. Dean Armstrong rarely carried a gun, but he was glad he was packing one this morning.

  Leibman stopped a few feet away from Mahone. “You Finn Mahone?” he demanded. “From back in the Highbinders?”

  Mahone looked up. “That’s my name. That’s where I live.” He saw that the other man had shifted until he was against the wall and Leibman was no longer between them.

  “Hear you got a lot of cattle back in them hills,” Leibman said. “Hear you been selling stock over to Rico.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Funny thing, you havin’ so many cows an’ nobody knowin’ about it.”

  “Not very funny. I don’t recall that anybody from Laird has ever been back to see me. It’s a pretty rough trail. You haven’t been back there, either.”

  “No, but I been to Rico. I seen some of them cows you sold.”

  “Nice stock,” Mahone said calmly. He knew what was coming, but Leibman wasn’t wearing a gun.

  “Some funny brands,” Leibman said. “Looked like some of them had been altered.”

  “Leibman,” Finn said quietly, “you came over here huntin’ trouble. You’d know if you saw any of those cattle that none of them had but one brand. You know nobody else has seen them, so you think you can get away with an accusation and cover it up by trouble with me.

  “You want trouble? All right, you’ve got it. If you say there was an altered brand on any of those cattle, you’re a liar!”

  Leibman sneered. “I ain’t wearin’ a gun!” he said. “Talk’s cheap.”

  “Not with me, it isn’t,” Mahone said. “With me talk is right expensive. But I don’t aim to mess up Brother Eason’s bar, here. Nor do I aim to let your pal Alcorn slug me from behind or take a shot at me.

  “So what we’re going to do, you and me, is go outside in the street. You don’t have a gun, so you can use yo
ur hands.”

  Without further hesitation he turned and walked into the street. “Judge,” he said to Collins, “I’d admire if you’d sort of keep an eye on my back. Here’s my guns.” He unbuckled his belts and passed them to the judge.

  Alcorn and Banty Hull, watched by Doc Finerty and Armstrong, looked uneasily at each other as they moved into the street. Mahone noticed the glance. This wasn’t going the way they had planned.

  Leibman backed off and pulled off his shirt, displaying a hairy and powerfully muscled chest and shoulders.

  Remy Kastelle came out of the Emporium and, noticing the crowd, was starting across the street when Pierce Logan walked up to her.

  He was a tall man, perfectly dressed, suave and intelligent. “How do you do, Miss Kastelle!” he said, smiling.

  She nodded up the street. “What’s going on up there?”

  Logan turned quickly, and his face tightened. “Looks like a fight starting,” he said. “That’s Leibman, but who can be fighting him?”

  Then he saw Mahone. “It’s that fellow from the Highbinders, Mahone.”

  “The one they’re calling a rustler?” Remy turned quickly. She failed to note the momentary, pleased response to her reference to Mahone as a rustler. Her eyes quickened with interest. “He tricked me. I hope he takes a good beating!”

  “He will!” Logan said dryly. “Leibman is a powerful brute. A rough-and-tumble fighter from the East.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Texas Dowd had walked up behind them. He was looking past them gravely. “I think your man Leibman is in for a whipping.”

  Logan laughed, but glanced sharply at Dowd. He had never liked the Lazy K foreman. He had always had an unpleasant feeling that the tall, cold cattleman saw too much, and saw it too clearly. There was also a sound to Dowd’s voice, something in his way of talking that caught in Logan’s mind. Stirred memories of…someone.

  “Wouldn’t want to bet, would you?” Logan asked.

  “Yes, I’ll bet.”

  Remy glanced around, surprised and puzzled. “Why, Mr. Dowd! I would never have imagined you to be a gambling man.”

  “I’m not,” Dowd said.