Gunsmoke Justice (11 page)

B
EFORE
Arden could answer Quarles’ accusation that he was getting spooky, the sound of hoofs hammered loudly in the room. Quarles got up quickly, and both men started for the door. A gunshot barked close by. Quarles jerked open the door and plowed onto the veranda, his cigar still in his fingers. The noise of running men and the fast-moving horse was cut sharply by an unmistakable scream of pain coming from Newt. Someone else shouted, and Arden’s horse suddenly came to life and wheeled into the night.

Arden’s swearing rose up. Another gun cracked suddenly. Quarles squinted into the darkness, unable to see more than blurs of shadow. His demanding voice went unheard. Soon the horse came back, moving too fast for anyone to see whether or not it carried a low-bent rider.

Men boiled downhill after the animal. Quarles turned in rage to Arden. “You fool! You were followed.”

From the side of the house Newt’s voice was crying in pain, the sound growing weaker. Quarles left the veranda, shouting for a lantern. When it was brought, he looked down at Newt. The foreman was twisted in the dirt as if he had been tied in a knot and flung to the ground. Great beads of sweat coursed down his streaked face and blood and foam bubbled from his mouth.

“Jordan,” he gasped. “Tricked me. The Swede ran me down with a horse.”

Quarles put his hands out, and Newt screamed again as fingers probed at him. Quarles stood up, his face ugly in the lantern light. “Back’s broke.” He watched the blood coming from Newt’s mouth. “Busted inside, too.”

While they watched, Newt’s gasp rose up and then faded out. After a moment he lay still. Quarles turned slowly away. “He’s done,” he said grimly. “Take care of him.” He started for the house.

Back on the veranda he waited for Arden. “If Jordan gets away, the news of you being here will spread all over the valley.”

Arden took a deep breath and steadied his trembling hands until he could shape a cigarette. “If it does,” he answered, “I’ll say I was trying to deal with you on the water. I’ll go to June now and give her the story. That’ll stop Jordan.”

“If it’s believed,” Quarles said skeptically. His was a suspicious mind, and he could not understand anyone who would not have the same kind of reasoning.

“Even if it isn’t, it’ll still give us time,” Arden argued.

“I’m not ready. Not until Parker’s out of the way,” Quarles said.

“There’s no help for it,” Arden objected. “Get rid of Parker and we can start.”

Quarles seemed to be considering it “Leave any messages with Keinlan,” he ordered. “I’ve got to think on it.” He threw the stub of his dead cigar into the yard. “Now get home and mend your fences.”

Arden went to borrow a Double Q mount, and Quarles stood on the veranda until all sound of the man and horse had faded out. Then he went to the corral and ordered his own horse. He was no longer dull with anger; he moved with the cold steadiness of a man whose mind is made up. As he followed the trail Arden had taken, he said aloud:

“Newt was worth a dozen of that fool.”

Halfway to town he met his men riding back. He lit a match and held it up to identify himself. The group was leading a riderless horse.

“Got away,” one of them said.

Quarles’ voice was flat and empty. “Shoot Jordan or the Swede on sight.” Dropping the match, he rode on toward town.

Putting his horse behind the Sawhorse Saloon, he went to the upstairs room and sent for Keinlan. When he came, Quarles laid out his orders bluntly.

“I want to know what’s really bothering Arden.” He told Keinlan of the night’s trouble and of Arden’s edginess. “Arden will be in looking for me soon. See that you find out then.”

“I’ll try,” Keinlan said indifferently. But when Quarles had gone down to the poker tables, Keinlan’s eyes were thoughtful and there was the faintest of smiles on his drooping mouth.

Since he was in town, Quarles decided to sit in on a game. He prided himself on being able to turn events to his own advantage before another man got hold of them. He was satisfied with the plan he had formed, and his spirits rose as he won three straight pots in the game.

He left then, on impulse, and hurried his horse until he could see Biddle’s place. There was still a light, and he turned toward it. He got to Biddle as he was ready for bed. Quarles told him quickly what had happened.

“Arden wants to move in on you,” Quarles pointed out.

Biddle rubbed a hand worriedly across his mouth. “I put no brand on that stock, Ike. I done just what you said. We got two hundred head boxed in now, but I ain’t branded it.”

“If you do,” Quarles told him, “see that Arden’s brand gets slapped on.” He laughed harshly. “He’s put it on his horses already, figuring it’s about time for the A-in-a-D to be on the range.” He made a show of leaving, and then turned casually.

“I’d see to Arden pretty soon, Nick. He’s getting so he don’t like you here.”

Comprehension began to work into Biddle’s scooped features. He lifted his lamp and started for the bedroom. “I’ll see to him,” he said.

“But not until I say so,” Quarles warned.

“I can wait,” Biddle said.

• • •

Brad rode into the Split S yard and went quietly to the old barn. Getting the two packs he had put together, he slipped out as silently as he had come. He had not planned on using them so soon, but now he was glad they were ready for him. He and Olaf camped high on the Split S range at the edge of the timber. Before the first daylight they were up, and long before the sun rose Brad was across on Biddle’s land, looking for tracks leading from the place where the Split S fence had been torn out and repaired.

It was still early when he found the grass-bottomed draw that held a herd of Split S beef. He guessed somewhere around three hundred head was in here. There was no guard; this fine grass and a spring close by kept the stock content.

“Biddle did this,” Brad said, “and Arden didn’t seem to like it.”

“Do we take them back?” Olaf questioned.

“Back to Split S,” Brad agreed, “but not to the same place.” Noticing Olaf’s puzzled expression, he said, “Olaf, when you start hitting a man, keep on hitting until you’re done with him. When you get him in a corner, keep him there. Being soft is fine for some people, but Quarles isn’t soft, and you can’t fight him that way.”

He rolled a cigarette, and when he looked over it at Olaf his eyes were bleak. “We hit Quarles twice now. We got to keep on hitting him or he’ll get out of the corner. He’s got more power than we have. Remember that. Hit and keep hitting.”

“Yah,” Olaf agreed gravely. And Brad could see that he was remembering the beating at the homestead.

“So,” Brad went on, “we take this stock into Pine Canyon. I got an idea. If it works we’ve got Quarles closer to where we want him.” He shook his head as if to clear it of heaviness. “Quarles won’t wait and Arden won’t wait. I’m not waiting from here on.”

He thought of Arden with bitterness. Faith McFee was promised to him and June Grant trusted in him. There was nothing that Brad could do yet. Not to Arden. How could he make the others understand? He was a newcomer, a man they thought of as brutal — a drifter; his word would be worth nothing. He would have to wait for a way to show the real Arden to Faith and June Grant. With a motion of anger he started for the herd of beef.

Olaf worked willingly and, after a few instructions, did his share in getting the stock moving. Brad led them out of the draw and over a little rise that led to Split S graze. From here he angled toward Pine Canyon. It was slow going and a few head escaped Olafs efforts back at drag, but the distance wasn’t far, and before the sun was straight overhead the first of the beef was going between the two tall pines that marked the mouth of the canyon.

Brad moved aside and let them go. The telltale sign of smoke coming from the line shack inside warned him that there were still Sawhorse or Double Q men here.

Half the cattle were in when Brad heard a rider coming from up canyon. He and Olaf sat around a pointed ledge, out of sight of the canyon mouth. The rider appeared, moving easily in and out of the drifting cattle. He was a man Brad had never seen before and, telling Olaf to stay out of sight, Brad rode into view.

“Where you been?” he demanded. “Biddle said you’d help move this bunch.” He scowled at the man, who was slack-jawed with surprise. “I only get paid to do one man’s work.”

“Who in hell are you?” the man asked.

Brad gave a name offhand and repeated his question. The hand had evidently been up here too long to have heard of his return. This was what Brad had hoped for. If it had turned out otherwise, his gun was ready to take over the argument. Now the man shook his head.

“I got no orders,” he said.

“You’re getting them,” Brad told him. “Biddle said he was sending someone to tell you. You’re supposed to move the other stock out to where this came from.”

The man’s eyes, set deep in a thin face, flickered with suspicion. “Since when?”

“Since last night,” Brad said flatly. “Split S hired a crew of hardcases and they’re getting proddy. Biddle wants this stuff where it won’t be found.” A smile twisted the corner of his mouth. “And if it is found, who’s to say this canyon ain’t Split S graze anyway?” He laughed at the joke. The other man smiled faintly, and then guffawed as he caught on to the idea.

“Nick didn’t figure that one out,” he said.

“No, Quarles did.”

The man seemed satisfied. He swung his horse. “All right, help me move the other out.”

“I got some strays to pick up,” Brad told him. “You ain’t crippled.”

The man shrugged and rode back into the canyon, hoorawing the tag end of the stock as he went. Brad chuckled softly on his way back to Olaf. He explained his plan carefully to the big man, and when he had finished Olaf nodded, a broad smile of anticipation on his face.

Brad left his horse and climbed, following a faint deer trail until he could look down into Pine Canyon. He could see three men working below, shunting the Split S stock off to one side and rounding up the Double Q and Sawhorse beef. They had not put too much on, Brad observed, just enough to stake a claim to the grass. It was a weak enough claim, but with three men to hold it, June Grant had been able to do little.

In a short while eighty-odd head of beef started for the mouth of the canyon and Brad eased back to the level. He staked himself at one side of the mouth, leaving Olaf on the other. The thin-faced man he had talked to came out presently, riding point, and Brad showed himself to view. His gun was held loosely in his hand.

“Friend,” he said softly, “just ride to your right.”

The man gaped at him and looked as if he might go for his gun. Brad lifted his own, making his point plain. With his hands held away from his sides, the man moved to the right. Suddenly a large arm snaked out, catching him by the throat. He made a single squawking sound and disappeared.

Brad slipped back out of sight. The beef began to pour through. This was the ticklish time, with two men to handle. They came, finally, out of the thin dust the cattle were throwing up. Brad knew neither man. Once more he rode into sight.

“Lift ‘em,” he ordered brusquely.

One man did as he was told, but the other reached for his gun. Brad sent a shot snapping at his hat and his hands went up hurriedly. Loyalty, Brad knew, went as far as a man’s pay in cases like this, and he had counted on the fact that these two would figure they weren’t being paid to buck odds.

Olaf rode out at Brad’s call and with surprising deftness roped both men. He went away and came back, leading the first man also roped to his horse. “Now,” Brad said, “we’ll take a little trip.”

They went sullenly, unable to do more than guide their horses the way he directed. Carefully, Brad made a wide swing so that he came down at the town from the west. After a short distance the mountains leveled into sage hills and then dropped lower until they were on the flats. Coming in from this direction they met no one.

It took a little time to find a way across the river gully, but finally Brad herded his captives to town, coming in from below the One-Shot Saloon. Here he stopped and had Olaf remove the ropes.

“Just keep on like I say,” he warned. “If you don’t think we can shoot, try running.”

They continued their sullen riding right up to the front of the jail. The blacksmith’s boy, Jube, was on the street, and his mouth fell open at the sight of the drifter and the big Swede herding two Sawhorse men and a Double Q rider into the jail.

McFee was at his desk, his feet cocked up. They came down with a thump when Brad pushed the men in. Brad said, “Found these three, Sheriff. Wearing guns in town. Figure you’d want to know.”

“He prodded us into town!” the thin-faced man blustered.

Brad took his gun and laid it on a chair, near to hand, and motioned to Olaf to do the same. “Ours are checked,” he said. The cold humor glinted in his eyes. “But these are plain lawbreakers, McFee. I say lock ’em up.”

The thin-faced man squawked again. McFee growled at them. He looked angry, and Brad realized it was directed at him. “Sawhorse and Double Q,” he muttered.

“Break laws like everyone else,” Brad said. His eyes met those of the sheriff and held steadily. “You ever been to Pine Canyon, Sheriff? Pretty place.” He went on softly. “And full of Split S beef. I counted three hundred head. And Split S fence was knocked down yesterday.”

“I’m not the law in the valley,” the sheriff said stiffly.

“These men are in town wearing guns. Are you the law here?”

McFee pressed his lips tightly together. This was a pretty obvious box Jordan had squeezed him into. He hesitated, weighing the outcome of this. His anger at Brad tipped the scales.

Brad thought he understood what was eating at McFee, but he didn’t let up. The humor was gone from him now, leaving his eyes a flinty gray. He continued to stare at the sheriff until McFee lowered his own gaze.

“I can’t hold them,” he said. “They got a chance to check their guns. If not, then they’ll have to ride out.”

The thin-faced man protested, “And let him trail us and do it all over again?”