Gunsmoke Justice (10 page)

T
HE MEN
were still at the table, but nearly finished, and Brad stood just inside the door waiting. He had met the three Split S hands before, but so casually that there had been little chance to study them. Now he looked at them carefully and hopefully, but it took little time for him to realize that what he sought was not here.

They all glanced at him, then returned quickly to their eating. By their acceptance of his and Olaf’s presence, Brad knew June Grant had prepared them.

Andy Toll was tall and lank, loose in the joints, and with the quiet smile of a man without brains enough to know when he was in danger. He acknowledged the greeting to Brad and Olaf with indifference. Jake Banhon and Nate Krouse reacted differently. And it was to them that Brad turned his interest. Of the two, Bannon was the younger and seemed to offer more encouragement — if any was to be had. He was a settled man in his thirties, but there was a light in his eyes that Brad had seen in others. Settled or not, men like that could only be pushed so far. Brad did not relish this kind when the chips were down. Too often a sudden recklessness could ruin things. But, even so, Bannon was worth more than a satisfied hand like Andy Toll.

Nate Krouse was a gray-haired veteran of many a range drive. It was stamped on him, as though the dust and grime from Texas to Montana had ground deep into his weathered skin. Yet in him, too, there was something lacking. It was not any particular thing that Brad could put a finger on, but it was there — a feeling of emptiness in the man. He would have no drive left, and few desires. This was his home now, and he would ask only to be left alone to run out the rest of his life in peace.

Andy Toll chose to begin a conversation as he forked pie into his weakly smiling mouth. “Something ripped up three rods of fence in the north pasture, June. We found it this morning. Looked like grizzly work.”

Nate Krouse snorted his disgust. “A grizzly or men. And there wasn’t no grizzly tracks around.”

Arden said, “Were there man tracks?”

“Hard ground,” Krouse answered. “Close clipped grass that’s been trampled. I couldn’t see any sign at all.”

“So it could have been a grizzly I” Andy Toll announced. He looked with pleased triumph around the table.

“You’d rather it was,” Jake Bannon said sourly. He had a harsh face, whiskered nearly to the eyes. It was strangely emotionless, so that most of his expression lay in his eyes.

“Stop that!” June Grant ordered. The weariness in her voice told Brad this had gone on before.

He looked now toward Bannon, measuring him. He got a full stare in return. “You figure it was Nick Biddle, Bannon?”

“I figure so,” Bannon said quietly. “If it was, he won’t stop just because we fixed up a piece of fence.”

Dave Arden was sitting silently at his place. Brad glanced his way quickly, and saw that Arden’s hands had a piece of bread nearly squeezed in two. But whatever was upsetting him, he was saying nothing about it. Brad probed Bannon further, watching Arden as much as the man he spoke to.

“You think he’ll come back soon?”

“He ain’t hurried before,” Bannon said. “He’s working on us slow. We can’t make no tally this time of year. When we do start the roundup he’ll have plenty of time to cut us down short.”

Arden spoke then, his voice jerky. “We can’t prove that.”

Bannon looked at him in faint surprise. “I don’t need to prove it,” he answered. “Our fence lays against those gullies of his that work into the rimrock. Once the stock is in them, it ain’t found easy — but that don’t mean he didn’t move it there.”

Krouse took it up, talking as much to Brad as to Arden. “Cougar losses run high some seasons. There’s cougars in them hills. If we yell short tally, Biddle can always blame them.”

“He can’t get our beef out of the valley,” June protested. “What good would it do him?”

“I’ve seen more spreads busted by draining off the stock slow than were ever hurt by big rustlers,” Brad answered. “If Quarles wants to weaken you, this is one way of doing it. Even if he ran the cattle into the mountains and left them to starve, you’d be out that much sooner.”

Andy Toll raised unbelieving eyes to Brad. “That ain’t human,” he objected.

Arden pushed back his chair. “If you men are right,” he said, nodding toward Krouse and Bannon, “then it’s time to do something. That means Quarles has started in on us.” He headed for the door. “I’m going to do a little looking myself.”

Brad said dryly, “Want help?”

“I’ll make it easier alone,” Arden answered shortly, and walked out.

Brad grinned faintly. Nate Krouse made another snorting sound. “Means Quarles had started in on us,” he repeated after Arden. “He’s been on us for a year now!”

“Not openly,” June said.

“This ain’t open, either,” Krouse reminded her. “And it ain’t the first time we had fence cut.” He got up, muttering about mending saddle gear, and went out the door. Bannon followed him at once. Brad rolled a cigarette and smoked thoughtfully.

It didn’t make sense the way Arden had acted. Krouse’s news had upset him a lot more than a man accustomed to such things should get. And if it had happened before, Brad could see no reason why Arden should choose this particular time to make an investigation. Brad started out on the impulse that not all was right.

“Don’t hold supper,” he said abruptly. Nodding to Olaf to come along, he went to the bunkhouse. He found Krouse sitting crosslegged in tailor fashion and working on a piece of bridle. Jake Bannon was smoking by the stove and throwing cards down in a desultory game of solitaire. Both men looked up.

Brad said, “What’s the matter with Toll?”

“He don’t like to think bad things,” Bannon said heavily. “They bother him. He don’t like to be bothered, so he don’t think.”

If there was any humor in Bannon’s words, Brad failed to appreciate it. He had seen too many men follow the same path. “How would you handle that busted fence?” he asked suddenly.

Bannon tossed a red queen on a black king. “Wait and see.

“Seems to me you’ve been waiting quite awhile.”

“We take orders from Arden, the same as you,” Bannon pointed out. He turned his back, closing off the conversation. Krouse had nothing at all to offer.

Brad said, “I think I’ll do a little looking myself.”

Krouse looked up. Bannon made no move except to toss down another card. It was Krouse who spoke. “Help yourself,” he said.

Brad turned and went out. Olaf followed and helped saddle. Under Brad’s painstaking work while at the homestead, Olaf had come a long way in his handling of cowhand chores. He saddled expertly, and he could put on a pack with a diamond hitch as well as the next man. A little shooting practice with the gun Brad had given him, as well as with a rifle, had brought results.

They mounted now, and Brad glanced toward the light spilling yellow out of the open bunkhouse door. “Olaf,” he said, “never get satisfied. And never think when you hire out that your work is done because the sun sets.”

“Yah,” Olaf agreed. “Foolish. When they fight, it’s too late.”

“Always too late,” Brad repeated softly.

He reined northwest into the high pastureland. The night was not yet full dark, but a deep, dusky twilight that gave odd shapes to the jagged hills and the trees along the twisting creeks of the uplands. Stopping on a knoll, he could see a pair of lights some distance ahead. One would be Biddle’s, the other Quarles’.

While he watched, something came between him and the first light; and the something was not too far off. By listening closely, he made out the drum of hoofs on the hard-packed earth.

“Rider,” he said. “Now who’s fool enough to break his neck hurrying in the dark?”

“Arden going to see Quarles,” Olaf said from beside him.

Brad swung his head. “What for?”

Olaf’s shrug was faintly visible. “I saw his horse there, two — three times.”

It was on the edge of Brad’s tongue to ask Olaf why he hadn’t spoken of this before. And then Brad realized that to a man strange to the country, much of what went on had been incomprehensible. The ways of the cattle-land were not things that Olaf could understand easily.

Brad only said, “Let’s mosey along and find out.”

A
RDEN RODE NORTHWEST
across the upper Split S range to make it appear as if he were going to investigate the downed fencing. Once out of sight and earshot of the ranch, he swung across Biddle’s graze.

It was almost full dark by the time he put his horse into Quarles’ yard. Newt came from the bunkhouse, and Arden gave his name. This display of caution struck him as curious.

Inside the house he found Quarles smoking a cigar, relaxed in an easy chair. Arden said, “What’s Newt doing on guard?”

“The drifter and the Swede came back.” Quarles’ eyes measured Arden. “That’s what you came to tell me?”

“One of the things,” Arden said. “They’re staying at Split S.”

“So I figured,” Quarles said, “when they didn’t show at the homestead.”

Arden took a nervous turn around the room and then, realizing that Quarles was watching him too closely, he forced himself to calmness. “Running them out that way was a fool thing to do,” he blurted.

Quarles’ eyebrows went up. “I didn’t want that drifter around,” he said. “He was getting too close to things.”

“Then you should have got rid of him for good,” Arden countered.

Quarles smoked in silence for a moment. His deep-sunk eyes were thoughtful as he saw the nervousness Arden could not conceal. Finally, he said, “I like to stay within the law as long as I can.”

Arden silently cursed Quarles’ unperturbed control. “You can’t any longer,” he said.

“Not much longer,” Quarles agreed. He brushed smoke from in front of his face and apparently dismissed the subject. “What else did you have to tell me?”

“Biddle’s rustling Split S stock again,” Arden accused hotly.

“Putting his brand on it?” There was a jeer in Quarles’ question.

“My brand goes on all Split S beef,” Arden said. “That’s the deal.”

“See Biddle, not me,” Quarles told him. A smile pulled down the corners of his heavy mouth. “Maybe he’s just holding it for you.”

Fury welled up in Arden. He paced around the room, working it all over in his mind. When he faced Quarles again, he said, “I don’t trust Biddle.”

“He’s handy to have around.”

“For a while, maybe,” Arden admitted. His voice dropped, coming slyly. “But he’s about through. He’s got almost as much graze as you have. He’s got good meadows in the hills.”

Quarles lifted his hand and rapped ash from his cigar. “I’ll take care of Nick when the time comes.”

“And Jordan?” Arden flung at him.

“You’re edgy,” Quarles observed, and waited.

“He’s ready to move,” Arden told him. “And from the way June acted tonight, he’s about got her convinced I’m stalling.”

“You don’t play it smart,” Quarles answered. “You’re getting spooky.”

• • •

Brad and Olaf cut across Biddle’s land in a long arc, going through a gate far up the Split S fence and following unfenced Sawhorse range until they could drop down toward Quarles’ place. No one molested them; there was no sign of life except the bunches of bedded-down cattle they passed. But as they approached the Double Q, Brad made doubly sure and walked his horse softly. Nearing the buildings, he left Olaf with the horses on a rise and slipped forward on foot.

The big Double Q bunkhouse was spilling over with noise as Brad cut a wide path around it. He came up to the house on the far side, cautious against meeting a dog, but there seemed to be none. Once he heard a horse nicker nearby, and it took him a moment to realize that it was tied in front. He slipped quietly up to it.

His hand touched the animal’s neck soothingly and his soft words were quieting. Under his fingers, the horse was warm and lathered from a fast ride. Brad passed his hand back and traced out the brand. It was one he did not know, and without a light he could not read it.

Moving away from the horse, he stopped in the shade of a big cottonwood that bulked near the veranda of the house. Someone came out of the bunkhouse, his laughter hooting through the night. Brad waited, and when the man had gone again, he eased himself against the wall of the house and up to a window where he could look in.

So Olaf had been right! Brad had a view of the near end of the parlor and resting at ease in a chair was Ike Quarles. Standing before him, feet spread wide, was Dave Arden. And Arden was arguing like a man who was very sure of himself in Quarles’ presence.

Brad could get none of the words, but the gestures Arden made were eloquent enough. He was steamed up about something. Quarles was taking it without any expression.

Brad shifted, trying to find a place where he might be able to hear, but the bunkhouse noises had grown louder, covering all sound. He was engrossed, trying to sift out that sound and catch the talk from inside, and so he did not near the footfalls until a clod rolled under the boot of a man behind him.

Brad spun, his hand slapping for his gun. But he was too late and the bandage around his body made him too slow. Newt was framed in the light coming from the window. There was a smirk of evil satisfaction on his face, and he carried a  .44 aimed at Brad’s middle.

“Step out, you!”

Brad stepped, his hands held high, though it was an effort to put them there. But there was the barest hope that Olaf might see that cutting out of the light and, in seeing it, understand.

Newt’s breath rasped through his loose lips when he saw who it was. “Now won’t the boss be interested! The tough drifter!” The gun dipped a little. “Heard you was back. Start walking.”

Brad knew only too well what this meant. He had saved Quarles a lot of trouble and explaining. He was trespassing, and Quarles could have him shot and there would be no questions asked. An accident in the dark was explanation enough. No man could openly put much blame on Double Q if that happened.

Newt wiggled the gun again. “Walk,” he ordered harshly.

Brad lowered his arms and started moving slowly. He put a whine in his voice, stalling for time. “Maybe we can make a deal, Newt.”

“Yeh,” Newt answered. “I got a friend who’s carrying your bullet. He’d be glad to give it back to you.” He laughed at his own humor. “How’s that for a deal, Jordan?”

“A little gold don’t go bad, Newt,” Brad suggested. “A — ”

Newt wasn’t listening. Both men heard it at the same time. The thunder of hoofs thudding against the night. Olaf was coming in, all right, and making noise enough to raise a graveyard. Brad heard Newt’s withdrawn breath, and the man made the mistake of stepping back out of Brad’s reach so he could turn and see what was coming. In the frozen instant that Newt’s head twisted away, Brad dived at him, slashing at his gun wrist.

Newt pivoted around and his gun crashed, the muzzle flame burning cruelly across Brad’s arm. But the gun was down on the ground and Newt was swinging his fists wildly, roaring for help.

Men boiled from the bunkhouse and the front door of Quarles’ house slammed. Brad ducked and caught Newt with a short, jarring left that sent the man staggering backward. Olaf came riding wildly on Brad’s palomino. The men in the yard scattered as the horse swept through them. Olaf drew rein sharply as Newt’s barrel-shaped body staggered in front of his horse and then, with cold deliberation, he sawed on the reins. The horse reared with the unexpected pressure and then plunged down, his front hoofs lunging. Newt flung up one arm, and a wild scream broke from his mouth, keening high in terror.

Brad whispered, “God Almighty!” as Olaf brought the horse up again, driving it onto Newt’s threshing body. There was another cry and a dull, snapping sound.

“Ride back!” Brad cried at Olaf, and broke for the cover of the big cottonwood trees. The men in the yard had got their wits about them now and guns flamed.

Olaf did as he was told, digging his heels into the palomino. His big body was loose in the saddle, but he rode bent low, and the darkness swallowed him. Brad stayed where he was for a second and then raced over the soft grass to the strange horse tied near the veranda. He had a glimpse of Quarles standing in the light of the front door, a cigar in one hand. But the noise boiling from the yard seemed to confuse rather than help him.

“What is it?” Quarles bellowed. “Newt! Where are you? Damn it, Newt!”

Untying the reins, Brad slid into the saddle and put the horse for the far corner of the house. “There he goes!” someone yelled, and a shot screamed a foot above Brad’s head. He could hear Arden’s voice rising in a steady swearing from the veranda.

The men were still milling around as he reached the knoll where he had left Olaf. He found him there, astride the bay again, holding the palomino by the reins. Brad left the strange horse for his own.

“I got your signal,” Olaf said quietly.

“What a way to kill a man,” Brad said, but without censure.

He understood when Olaf said simply, “He beat us.” That would be Olaf’s way, gentle until aroused, but possessed then with the terrible wildness of the easy man who is pushed too far.

They stayed where they were in a puddle of darkness. When some of the Double Q men mounted, Brad headed the strange horse down the slope and quirted it. The animal hit the yard running full speed, went through the patch of light too swiftly to be more than glimpsed, and was gone down the road toward the valley. Brad watched as the Double Q hands streamed down the the road after it.

But, should some of them be smarter, he led the way quickly toward the west hills, staying in shadow as much as possible and seeking grass to keep the hoofbeats muffled.

“It was Arden,” he told Olaf. It had been reckless going there, he thought. Yet he had found out a good deal. Arden’s waiting and hedging made sense now where it had not before. And even though it gave Quarles further reason to ride on him at once, it had been worth the risk to find this out.

“Arden’s been stalling Miss June so she couldn’t last till winter,” he explained to Olaf. “That was his game with Quarles, and now they’ll know it’s over. So the waiting is done, Olaf. They’ll shoot on sight from here on in.”

“Yah,” Olaf agreed calmly. And they rode on without further comment.