Collection 1999 - Beyond The Great Snow Mountains (v5.0) (7 page)

“Mr. Colker spent the whole evening telling me how he didn’t have to be a cowhand, that he had a ranch of his own, well stocked with cattle, and that he intended to branch out. When Ward told me of the cattle we were missing, I became curious, and I checked with Austin as to Buff Colker’s brand.”

“Are you accusin’ me of being a rustler?” Colker turned on her, his dark eyes ugly. Then he looked back at the sheriff. “You can see for yourself, Sheriff. This is a cheap plot. They are conniving to hang this on me. McQueen is a known gunman, so is Sartain, and they both work for Miss Kermitt.”

Davis chewed his mustache. “Do you have a brand?”

Colker’s eyes shifted. “Yes,” he said finally.

“Is it a Box Triangle?”

“Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean that I’m a rustler.”

Davis dropped to his haunches and with a stick, drew a Slash 7 in the sand, and then opposite it, a Box Triangle.

He glanced up at Colker. “You’ve got to admit it’s awful easily done.” He straightened to his feet. “Now, folks, I ain’t much on a man havin’ an alibi. Them as needs ’em can get ’em, an’ them as don’t need ’em never has ’em.

“If McQueen has found the Tumblin’ K cows, like he says, I don’t see no reason for any shootin’ on his part. Far’s I know, the two of them are friends. There has been some rustlin’ here, I can see that. I reckon afore we can do much else we’ll have to send a deputy to your ranch an’ have a few head of your cows killed so we can check the brands. If we can find any Slash Sevens made over, I reckon we’ll have Gerber’s rustler, an’ maybe a powerful suspect for his murder. Until then we’ll hold you.”

“That don’t figure, Jeff,” Yost protested. “Just because this girl figured it that way is no sign that Gerber did.”

“He knew.” Ruth spoke positively. “I was very careless last night. I was drawing Slash Sevens into Box Triangles at the table, and forgot and left my paper there. When I returned for it, the cook told me that Dick Gerber had picked it up, swore, and went out.”

Buff Colker was sweating now, and his face was pale. “That doesn’t prove a thing!” he declared. “I demand to be allowed to leave. All you have is a lot of suspicion. I can find fifty brands in Texas that could be made from Slash Sevens.”

Ernie Yost had fallen back close to Colker, and Villani had moved toward his horse. A slight movement by Black drew Ward’s attention, and he saw that the big gunman was sidling toward his horse and his rifle. And then he saw something else.

Bud Fox had his rope on a steer and he was half leading, half dragging him toward the house. Behind him, Perkins was using his rope as a whip to urge the stubborn steer along.

Ward McQueen shifted his position so he could keep Yost and Colker completely covered if necessary. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that Kim Sartain and Baldy Jackson were both alert to the shifting of forces. Only the sheriff and Jensen seemed unaware of what was happening.

“Ruth, you’d better get inside,” Ward said quietly. “There’s going to be trouble.” He spoke softly, but he noticed the sheriff’s sudden movement and knew he had heard.

Ward shifted his eyes from Buff toward the steer, and for a moment he stared at the weird brand without comprehension, and then it hit him.

“Davis!” he said sharply. “There’s your proof of murder!”

Burned with a running iron on the steer’s hide was the date, and under it:

shot by buf clkr rustler, dyin

/7 to bx tri

hot as hell

d. grbr.

“There it is! Burned with a runnin’ iron as the old man lay dyin’ in the brush! Then he cut loose the steer—had him thrown and ready to check his brand when Buff came up on him!”

Buff Colker stepped back quickly and clawed for his gun, but Ward was faster. Even as Colker’s gun started to lift, Ward’s first bullet ripped the thumb from his hand and knocked him off balance.

Colker stared at the stub where his thumb had been, now gushing with blood, and with a cry like an animal, rushed for his horse. Ward had swung his gun toward Yost even as a bullet knocked him into the side of the house. He fired, holding his gun low. Sartain had opened up on Black, and the wiry young gunfighter was walking in on him, firing with every step. Villani was out of it. Baldy had fired his rifle right across the saddle bows, and Villani toppled over, clawed at the side of the water trough, and got himself half erect, getting his gun out even as he cursed. Baldy fired again, and the gun slid from Villani’s fingers.

Yost screamed as Ward’s bullet hit him, and then suddenly, his eyes wild, he ran straight for McQueen, his gun blazing. Ward stepped back and tripped on the stoop. Catching himself on one hand, he looked up into the wild, fear-crazed eyes of Yost as the man threw down on him with a six-shooter at point-blank range! McQueen shot fast, three times, as swiftly as he could thumb the gun.

Ernie Yost went up on his toes, his face twisting in a frightful grimace; then he pitched over on his face, his gun blasting the hard-packed earth within inches of Ward’s hand.

McQueen kicked the dying man off his legs and got to his feet, feeding shells into his gun, but the battle was over. In a few seconds four men had died.

Sheriff Davis had fired but one shot, killing Buff Colker as he scrambled to get away.

Ward McQueen holstered his gun and grabbed for support at the well coping. He knew he had been shot; his side felt strangely numb and his mind seemed sluggish, but his eyes were alive and knowing.

Jensen was down, but struggling to get up, with a red stain on his pant leg. Sheriff Davis, in the most exposed position of all, was unharmed.

Ruth rushed to Ward’s side. “Darling! You’re hurt!”

He put his hand on her shoulder and tried to grin. “Not much,” he said. “How’s Kim?”

“Never touched me!” Sartain said. “They plowed a furrow over Baldy’s ear. Cut off a piece of the last fringe of hair he’s got left!”

Neither Fox nor Perkins had managed to get off a shot. Both men came crowding up now, and they helped Ward inside. On examination they found he had only a flesh wound in the side, and while there had been some loss of blood, he was not badly hurt.

Ward looked at Ruth. “I reckon when I get on my feet, we’d better haul out of here. This place looks like trouble.”

She laughed, then blushed. “I’m in a hurry to get back, too, Ward. Or shall we wait?”

“No,” he smiled, “I’ve heard that Cheyenne is a good town for weddings!”

SIDESHOW CHAMPION

W
HEN MARK LANNING looked at me and asked if I would take the Ludlow fight, I knew what he was thinking, and just what he had in mind. He also knew that there was only one answer I could give.

“Sure, I’ll take it,” I said. “I’ll fight Van Ludlow any place, for money, marbles, or chalk.”

But it was going to be for money. Lanning knew that, for that’s what the game is about. Also, it had to be money because I was right behind the eight ball for lack of it.

Telling the truth: if I hadn’t needed the cash as bad as I did, I would never have taken the fight. Not me, Danny McClure.

I’d been ducking Ludlow for two years. Not because I didn’t want a shot at the title, but because of Lanning and some of the crowd behind him.

Mark Lanning had moved in on the fight game in Zenith by way of the slot machine racket. He was a short, fat man who wore a gold-plated coin on his watch chain. That coin fascinated me. It was so much like the guy himself, all front and polish, and underneath about as cheap as they come.

However, Mark Lanning was
the
promoter in Zenith. And Duck Miller, who was manager for Van Ludlow, was merely an errand boy for Mark. About the only thing Lanning didn’t control in the fight game by that time was me. I was the uncrowned middleweight champ and everybody said I was the best boy in the division. Without taking any bows, I can say yes to that one.

The champ, Gordie Carrasco, was strictly from cheese. He won the title on a foul, skipped a couple of tough ones, and beat three boys on decisions. Not that he couldn’t go. Nobody ever gets within shouting distance of any kind of title unless he’s good. But Gordie wasn’t as good as Ludlow by a long ways. He wasn’t as good as Tommy Spalla, either. And he wasn’t as good as me.

Ludlow was a different kinda deal. I give the guy that. He had everything and maybe a little more. Now no real boxer ever believes anybody is really better than he is. Naturally, I considered myself to be the better fighter. But he was good, just plenty good, and anybody who beat him would have to go the distance and give it all he had. Van Ludlow was fast. He was smart, and he could punch. Added to it, he was one of the dirtiest fighters in the business.

That wasn’t so bad. A lot of good fighters have been rough. It isn’t always malicious. It’s just they want to win. It’s just the high degree of competitive instinct, and because among top grade fighting men the fight’s the thing, and a rule here or there doesn’t matter so much. Jack Dempsey never failed to use every advantage in the book, so did Harry Greb, and for my money they were two of the best who ever lived.

If it had just been Ludlow, I’d have fought him long ago. It was Lanning I was ducking. Odd as it may seem, I’m an honest guy. Now I’ve carried a losing fighter or two when it really didn’t matter much, but I never gypped a better, and my fights weren’t for sale. Nor did I ever buy any myself. I won them in the ring and liked it that way.

The crowd around Lanning was getting a stranglehold on the fight game. I didn’t like to see that bunch of crooks, gunmen, and chiselers edging in everywhere. I had ducked the fights with Ludlow because I knew that when I went in there with him, I was the last chance honest fighting had in Zenith or anywhere nearby. I was going to be fighting every dirty trick Lanning and his crowd could figure out. The referee and the judges would be against me. The timekeeper would be for Ludlow. If there was any way Lanning could get me into the ring without a chance, he’d try it.

Yet, I was taking the fight.

The reason was simple enough. My ranch, the only thing in the world I cared about, was mortgaged to the hilt. I’d blown my savings on that ranch, then put a mortgage on it to stock it and build a house and some barns. If it hadn’t been for Korea, it would have been paid off. But I was in the army, and Mark Lanning located that note and bought it.

The mortgage was due, and I didn’t have even part of a payment. Without that ranch, I was through. My days in the ring weren’t numbered, but from where I stood I could see the numbers. I’d been fighting fourteen years, and Lanning had the game sewed up around there, so nobody fought unless they would do business. I cared more about that ranch than I did the title, so I could take a pass on Gordie Carrasco. But Van Ludlow couldn’t. Lanning had him aimed at Gordie but he wouldn’t look so good wearing the belt if the man all the sportswriters called “the uncrowned champ” wasn’t taken down, too. Lanning now had it all lined up. I had to fight or give up on my future.

And then, there was Marge Hamlin.

Marge was my girl. We met right after I mustered out, when I first returned to Zenith. She was singing at the Rococo, and a honey if there ever was one. We started going together, became engaged, and were going to marry in the summer.

I
had
to take the fight. That was more the truth of it.

I went over to Lanning’s. Duck Miller was there. We talked.

“Then,” Lanning said, smiling his greasy smile, “there’s the matter of an appearance forfeit.”

“What d’you mean?” I asked. “Ever know of me running out on a fight?”

He moved one pudgy hand over to the ashtray and knocked off the gray ashes from his expensive cigar. “It ain’t that, Danny,” he said smoothly, “it’s just business. Van’s already got his up to five thousand dollars.”

“Five thousand?” I couldn’t believe what I heard. “Where would I get five thousand dollars? If I had five thousand you would never get me within a city block of any of your fights.”

“That’s what it has to be,” he replied, and his eyes got small and ugly. He liked putting the squeeze on. “You can put up your car an’ your stock from the ranch.”

For a minute I stared at him. He knew what that meant as well as I did. It would mean that come snakes or high water, I would have to be in that ring to fight Ludlow. If I wasn’t, I’d be flat broke, not a thing in the world but the clothes on my back.

Not that I’d duck a fight. But there are such things as cut eyes and sickness.

“Okay,” I said, “I’ll put ’em up. But I’m warnin’ you. Better rig this one good. Because I’m going to get you!”

I wasn’t the bragging kind, and I saw Duck Miller looked a little worried. Duck was smart enough, just weak. He liked the easy dough, and the easy money in Zenith all came through Mark Lanning. Lanning was shrewd and confident. He had been winning a long time. Duck Miller had never won, so Miller could worry.

The thing was, Miller knew me. There had been a time when Duck and I had been broke together. We ran into some trouble out West when a tough mob tried to arrange one of my fights to make a cleanup. I refused to go along, and they said it was take the money or else.

Me, I’m a funny guy. I don’t like getting pushed around, and I don’t like threats. In that one, everybody had figured the fight would go the distance. This guy was plenty tough. Everybody figured me for the nod, but nobody figured he would stop me or I’d stop him. The wise boys had it figured for me to go in the tank in the sixth round.

I came to that fight all rodded up. They figure a fighter does it with his hands or no way. But these hombres forgot I’m a western man myself, and didn’t figure on me packing some iron.

Coming out of the Arizona Strip, the way I do, I grew up with a gun. So I came down to that fight, and when this Rock Spenter walked out of his corner I feinted a left and Rock threw a right. My right fist caught him coming in, and my left hook caught him falling. And at the ten count, he hadn’t even wiggled a toe.

I went down the aisle to the dressing room on the run, and when the door busted open, I was sitting on the rubbing table with a six-shooter in my mitt. Those three would-be hard guys turned greener than a new field of alfalfa, and then I tied two of them up, put the gun down, and went to work on the boss.

When I got through with him, I turned the others loose one at a time. Two of them were hospital cases. By that time the sheriff was busting down the door.

That old man had been betting on me, and when I explained, he saw the light very quickly. The sure-thing boys got stuck for packing concealed weapons, and one of them turned out to be wanted for armed robbery and wound up with ten years.

I’m not really bragging. I’m not proud of some of the circles I’ve traveled in or some of the things I’ve done. But I just wanted you to know what Duck Miller knew. And Duck may have been a loser, but he never lost anything but money. So far, he was still a stand-up guy.

When I had closed the door I heard Duck speak. “You shouldn’t have done it, Mark,” he said. “He won’t take a pushing around.”

“Him?” Contempt was thick in Lanning’s voice. “He’ll take it, and he’ll like it!”

Would I? I walked out of there and I was sore. But that day, for the first time in months, I was in the gym.

The trouble was, I’d been in the service, spent my time staring through a barbed-wire fence in a part of Korea that was like Nevada with the heat turned off, and during that time I’d done no boxing. Actually, it was over three years since I’d had a legitimate scrap.

Van Ludlow had a busted eardrum or something and he had been fighting all the time. It takes fights to sharpen a man up, and they knew that. Don’t think they didn’t. They wanted me in the tank or out of the picture, but bad. Not that Van cared. Ludlow, like I said, was a fighter. He didn’t care where his opponent came from or what he looked like.

Marge was waiting for me, sitting in her car in front of the Primrose Cafe. We locked the car and went inside and when we were sitting in the booth, she smiled at me.

Marge was a blonde, and a pretty one. She was shaped to please and had a pair of eyes you could lose yourself in. Except for one small thing, she was perfect. There was just a tiny bit of hardness around her mouth. It vanished when she smiled, and that was often.

“How was it?” she asked me.

“Rough,” I said. “I’m fighting Van in ninety days. Also,” I added, “he made me post an appearance forfeit. I had to put it up, and it meant mortgaging my car and my stock on the ranch.”

“He’s got you, hasn’t he?” Marge asked.

I smiled then. It’s always easy to fight when you’re backed in a corner and there’s only one way out.

“No,” I said, “he hasn’t got me. The trouble with these smart guys, they get too sure of themselves. Duck Miller is a smarter guy than Lanning.”

“Duck?” Marge was amazed. “Why, he’s just a stooge!”

“Yeah, I know. But I’ll lay you five to one he’s got a little dough in the bank, and well, he’ll never wind up in stir. Lanning will.”

“Why do you say that?” Marge asked quickly. “Have you got something on him?”

“Uh-uh. But I’ve seen his kind before.”

Like I say, I went to the gym that day. The next, too. I did about eight rounds of light work each of those two days. When I wanted to box, on the third day, there wasn’t anybody to work with. There were a dozen guys of the right size around, but they were through working, didn’t want to box that day, or weren’t feeling good. It was a runaround.

If I’d had money, I could have imported some boys and worked at the ranch, but I didn’t. However, there were a couple of big boys out there who had fooled with the mitts some, and I began to work with them. Several times Duck Miller dropped by, and I knew he was keeping an eye on me for Lanning. This work wasn’t doing me any good. I knew it, and he knew it.

Marge drove out on the tenth day in a new canary-colored coupe. One of those sleek convertible jobs. She had never looked more lovely. She watched me work, and when I went over to lean on the door, she looked at me.

“This won’t get it, Danny,” she said. “These hicks aren’t good enough for you.”

“I know,” I said honestly, “but I got a plan.”

“What is it?” she asked curiously.

“Maybe a secret,” I told her.

“From me?” she pouted. “I like to know everything about you, Danny.”

She did all right. Maybe it was that hardness around her mouth. Or put it down that I’m a cautious guy. I brushed it off, and although she came back to the subject twice, I slipped every question like they were lefthand leads. And that night, I had Joe, my hand from the ranch, drive me down to Cartersville, and there I caught a freight.

The Greater American Shows were playing country fairs through the Rocky Mountain and prairie states. I caught up with them three days after leaving the ranch. Old Man Farley was standing in front of the cook tent when I walked up. He took one look and let out a yelp.

“No names, Pop,” I warned. “I’m Bill Banner, a ham an’ egg pug, looking for work. I want a job in your athletic show, taking on all comers.”

“Are you crazy?” he demanded, low voiced. “Danny McClure, you’re the greatest middleweight since Ketchell, an’ you want to work with a carnival side-show?”

Briefly, I explained the pitch. “Well,” he said, “you won’t find much competition, but like you say, you’ll be fightin’ every night, tryin’ all the time. Buck’s on the show, too. He’d like to work with you.”

Almost fifteen years before, a husky kid, just off a cow ranch in the Strip, I’d joined the Greater American in Las Vegas. Buck Farley, the old man’s kid, soon became my best pal.

An ex-prizefighter on the show taught us to box, and in a few weeks they started me taking on all comers. I stayed with the show two years and nine months, and in that time must have been in the ring with eight or nine hundred men.

Two, three, sometimes four a night wanted to try to pick up twenty-five bucks by staying four rounds. When I got up twenty-five bucks by staying four rounds. When I got better, the show raised it to a hundred. Once in a while we let them stay, but that was rare, and only when the crowd was hot and we could pack them in for the rest of the week by doing it.

When I moved on, I went pro and had gone to the top. After three years, I was ranking with the first ten. A couple of years later I was called the uncrowned champ.

“Hi, Bill!” Buck Farley had been tipped off before he saw me. “How’s it going?”

Buck was big. I could get down to one sixty, but Buck would be lucky to make one ninety, and he was rawboned and tough. Buck Farley had always been a hand with the gloves, so I knew I had one good, tough sparring partner.