Dutchmans Flat (Ss) (1986) (18 page)

Two of Webb's best men were dead and three wounded, and he would have to keep them out of sight until they were well again. Quickly, he decided the line cabin on Dry Legget would be the best hideout.

Foster came from the woods, his face serious.

"McQueen, you'd better ride along to town with me. I found signs that six or seven men were in this fight, and several were killed or hurt.

This requires investigation."

"You mean I'm under arrest?"

"No such thing. Only you'll be asked questions. We'll check your deed an' prob'ly have to get your boss up here. We're goin' to get to the bottom of this."

"One thing, Foster, before we go. I'd like you to check our guns. Nobody among us has fired a shot for days. I'd like you to know that."

"You could have switched guns," Webb suggested. McQueen ignored him. "Kim, why don't you fork your bronc an' ride along with us? Baldy, you an' Bud stay here and let nobody come around unless it's the sheriff or one of us. Got it?"

"You bet!" Jackson spat a stream of tobacco juice at an ant. "Nobody'll come around, believe me."

Neal Webb kept his mouth shut but he watched irritably. McQueen was thinking of everything, but as Webb watched the body of young McCracken tied over the saddle he had an idea.

Jimmy had been well-liked around town, so if the story got around that McQueen was his killer, there might be no need for a trial or even a preliminary hearing. It was too bad Foster was so stiff-necked.

Kim Sartain did not ride with the group.
With his Winchester across his saddle bows he kept off to the flank or well back in the rear where the whole group could be watched.
Sheriff Foster noted this, and his frosty old eyes glinted with amused appreciation.

"What's he doin' back there?" Webb demanded. "Make him ride up front, Sheriff!"

Foster smiled. "He can ride where he wants. He don't make me nervous, Webb. What's eatin' you?"

The town of Pelona for which they were riding faced the wide plains from the mouth of Cottonwood Canyon, and faced them without pretensions. The settlement, dwarfed by the bulk of the mountain behind it, was a supply point for cattle men, a stage stop, and a source of attraction for cowhands to whom Santa Fe and El Paso were faraway dream cities.

In Pelona, with its four saloons, livery stable, and five stores, Si Hutch, who owned Hutch's Emporium, was king.

He was a little old man, grizzled, with a stubble of beard and a continually cranky mood. Beneath that superficial aspect he was utterly vicious, without an iota of mercy for anything human or animal.

Gifted in squeezing the last drop of money or labor from those who owed him, he thirsted for wealth with the same lust that others reserved for whiskey or women.
Moreover, al though few realized it, he was cruel as an Apache and completely depraved.
One of the few who realized the depth of his depravity was his strong right hand, Ren Oliver.

Oliver was an educated man and for the first twenty-five years of his life had lived in the east. Twice, once in New York and again in Philadelphia, he had been guilty of killing. In neither case had it been proved, and in only one case had he been questioned. In both cases he had killed to cover his thieving, but finally he got in too deep and realizing his guilt could be proved, he skipped town.

In St. Louis he shot a man over a card game. Two months later he knifed a man in New Orleans, then drifted west, acquiring gun skills as he traveled. Since boyhood his career had been a combination of cruelty and dishonesty, but not until he met Si Hutch had he made it pay. Behind his cool, some what cynical expression few people saw the killer.

He was not liked in Pelona. Neither was he disliked. He had killed two men in gun battles since arriving in town, but both seemed to have been fair, standup matches.

He was rarely seen with Si Hutch, for, despite the small population, they had been able to keep their cooperation a secret. Only Neal Webb, another string to Hutch's bow, understood the connection. One of the factors that aided Hutch in ruling the Pelona area was that his control was exercised without being obvious.
Certain of his enemies had died by means unknown to either Ren Oliver or Neal Webb.

The instrument of these deaths was unknown, and for that reason Si Hutch was doubly feared.

When Sheriff Foster rode into town with Webb and McQueen, Si Hutch was among the first to know. His eyes tightened with vindictive fury. That damned Webb! Couldn't he do anything right? His own connection with the crimes well-covered, he could afford to sit back and await developments.

Ward McQueen had been doing some serious thinking on the ride into town. The negotiations between Ruth Kermitt and old Tom McCracken had been completed almost four months ago. McCracken had stayed on at the Firebox even after the title was transferred and was to have managed it for another six months. His sudden death ended all that.

Webb had said he owned the ranch by virtue of young Jimmy signing it over to pay a gambling debt.
This was impossible, for Jimmy had known of the sale and had been present during the negotiations.
That, then, was an obvious falsehood. Neal Webb had made an effort to obtain control of the ranch, and Jimmy McCracken had been killed to prevent his doing anything about it.

The attempt to seize control of the ranch argued a sure and careful mind, and a ruthless one. Somehow he did not see Webb in that role, although Webb was undoubtedly a part of the operation. Still, what did he know? Pelona was a strange town and he was a stranger. Such towns were apt to be loyal to their own against any outsider. He must walk on cat feet, careful to see where he stepped. Whoever was in charge did not hesitate to kill, or hesitate to lose his own men in the process.

Sheriff Foster seemed like an honest man, but how independent was he?
In such towns there were always factions who controlled, and elected officials were often only tools to be used.

Faced with trickery and double-dealing as well as such violence, what could he do?

When Ruth arrived from the Tumbling K in Nevada there would be no doubt that she owned the Firebox and that Jimmy had known of it.
That would place the killing of young Jimmy McCracken at Neal Webb's door.

Ren Oliver was on the walk in front of the Bat Cave Saloon when they tied up before the sheriffs office.
He had never seen either McQueen or Sartain before but knew them instantly for what they were, gunfighters, and probably good.

McQueen saw the tall man in the gray suit standing on the boardwalk. Something in the way he carried himself seemed to speak of what he was. As he watched, Oliver turned in at the Emporium. Ward finished tying his roan and went into the sheriffs office.

Nothing new developed from the talk in the office of the sheriff, nor in the hearing that followed. Young Jimmy Mc Cracken had been slain by persons unknown after a consider able chase. The evidence seemed to establish that several men had been involved in the chase, some of whom had been killed or wounded by McCracken.

Ward McQueen gave his own evidence and listened as the others told what they knew or what tracks seemed to indicate. As he listened he heard whispering behind him, and he was well aware that talk was going around. After all, he and the Tumbling K riders were strangers. What talk he could over hear was suspicion of his whole outfit.

Neal Webb had a bunch of tough men around him and he was belligerent. When telling what he knew he did all he could to throw suspicion on the Tumbling K. However, from what he could gather, all of Webb's riders were present and accounted for. If Webb had been one of those involved in the killing of McCracken it must have been with other men than his own.

After the inquest McQueen found himself standing beside the sheriff. "What kind of a country is this, Sheriff? Do you have much trouble?"

"Less than you'd expect. Webb's outfit is the biggest, but his boys don't come in often. When they want to have a blowout they ride down to Alma. They do some drinkin' now an' again but they don't r'ar up lookin' for trouble."

"Many small outfits?"

"Dozen or so. The Firebox will be the largest if you run cows on all of it." Foster studied him. "Do you know the range limits of the Firebox?"

"We figure to run stock from the Apache to Rip-Roaring Mesa and Crosby Creek, south to Dillon Mountain and up to a line due east from there to the Apache."

"That's a big piece of country but it is all Firebox range. There are a few nesters squatted in Bear Canyon, and they look like a tough outfit, but they've given me no trouble."

"Miss Kermitt holds deeds on twelve pieces of land," Ward explained. "Those twelve pieces control most of the water on that range, and most of the easy passes. We want no trouble, but we'll run cattle on range we're entitled to."

"That's fair enough. Watch your step around Bear Canyon. Those boys are a mean lot."

Kim Sartain was somewhere around town but McQueen was not worried. The gunslinging segundo of the Tumbling K was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, and in the mean while Ward had business of his own to take care of. He glanced up and down the street, studying the stores. Two of them appeared better stocked than the others. One was Hutch's Emporium, a large store apparently stocked to the doors with everything a rancher could want. The other stores were smaller but were freshly painted and looked neat.

McQueen walked along to the Emporium. A small man with a graying beard looked up at him as he came to the counter. It was an old-fashioned counter, curved inward on the front to accommodate women shoppers who wore hoopskirts.

"Howdy there! Stranger in town?"

"Tumbling K. We've taken over the Firebox, and we'll need supplies."

Hutch nodded agreeably. "Glad to help! The Firebox, hey? Had a ruckus out there, I hear."

"Nothin' much." Ward walked along, studying the goods on the shelves and stacked on tables. He was also curious about the man behind the counter. He seemed genial enough, but his eyes were steel-bright and glassy. He was quick-moving and obviously energetic.

"Troublin' place, the Firebox. Old McCracken seemed to make it pay but nobody else ever done it. You reckon you'll stay?"

"We'll stay."

McQueen ordered swiftly and surely, but not all they would need. There were other stores in town, and he preferred to test the water before he got in too deep. The Firebox would need to spend a lot of money locally and he wanted to scatter it around.

Hutch made no comment until he ordered a quantity of .44-caliber ammunition.

"That's a lot of shootin'. You expectin' a war?"

"War? Nothing like that, but we're used to wars. Jimmy McCracken was killed for some reason by some right vicious folks. If they come back, we wouldn't want them to feel unwelcome."

The door opened and Neal Webb walked in.
He strode swiftly to the counter and was about to speak when he recognized McQueen.
He gulped back his words, whatever they might have been.

"Howdy. Reckon you got off pretty easy."

McQueen took his time about replying. "Webb, the Tumblin' K is in this country to stay. You might as well get used to us and accept the situation. Then we can have peace between us and get on with raising and marketing cattle. We want no trouble, but we're ready if it comes.

"We did business with McCracken and I couldn't have found a finer man. His son seemed cut from the same pattern. "They didn't belong to my outfit, so I'm droppin' this right here. If it had been one of my men I'd backtrail the killers until I found where they came from. Then I'd hunt their boss and I'd stay with him until he was hanged, which is what he deserves."

Behind McQueen's back, Hutch gestured, and the hot re marks Webb might have made were stifled. Puzzled, McQueen noticed the change and the sudden shift of Webb's eyes.
Finishing his order, he stepped into the street.

As he left, a gray-haired, impatient-seeming man brushed by him. "Neal," he burst out, "where's that no-account Bemis? He was due over to my place with that horse he borried. I need that paint the worst way!"

"Forget it," Webb said. "I'll see he gets back to you." "But I want to see Bemis!

He owes me money!"

Ward McQueen let the door close behind him and glanced across the street. A girl with red-gold hair was sweeping the boardwalk there. She made a pretty picture and he crossed the street.

As he stepped up on the walk, she glanced up.
Her expression changed as she saw him.
Her glance was the swiftly measuring one of a pretty girl who sees a stranger, attractive and possibly unmarried. She smiled.

"You must be one of that new outfit the town's talking about. The Tumbling K, isn't it?"

"It is." He shoved his hat back on his head. Kim should see this girl, he thought.

She's lovely. "I'm the foreman."

She glanced across the street toward Hutch's store. "Started buying from Hutch? Like him?"

"I don't know him. Do you run this store?"

"I do, and I like it. What's more, I almost make money with it. Of course Hutch gets most of the business. I've had no trouble with him, so far."