Novel 1954 - Utah Blaine (As Jim Mayo) (v5.0) (3 page)

“You think it’s settled! Why, damn you, I—” His eyes caught the rawhide thongs about Blaine’s legs and he hesitated, his voice changing abruptly, curiously, “Gunman, hey? Or do you just wear ’em for show? Better not be bluffin’, because you’ll get called.”

“Fox,” Blaine’s voice was even and he was smiling a little, “I do bluff occasionally, but I can stand a call. Don’t forget it. Any time you and anybody else want to call, they’ll have sixes to beat.”

Chapter 3

T
HE STALLION WAS fretting in his stall when Utah came down to the stable the next morning. Saddling him up, he led the dun stallion outside and mounted; then he rode up to the eating house. Despite the early hour, two other horses were tied at the hitch rail before the cafe.

Both men looked up as he entered. One of them was a slender young fellow with an intelligent, attractive face. He had sharply cut features and clear gray eyes. He nodded to Utah. “How are you, Blaine? I recognized you from the descriptions.” He held out his hand. “I’m Ralston Forbes. I own the local newspaper.”

Blaine shook hands gravely. “First I’ve heard of a paper,” he said. “You take ads?”

Forbes laughed. “You wouldn’t ask that if you knew the business. Advertising is the lifeblood of the business.”

“Then take one for me. Just say that Mike Blaine has taken the job of manager for the 46 Connected and in the absence of Joe Neal all business will be with him.”

Forbes chuckled. “If I didn’t need the dollar that ad will cost you, I’d run it as news, because it will be the worst news some of these ranchers have had in years. All of them liked Joe, but they liked his range better. In a free range country you know what that means.”

“I know.” Blaine was aware that a subtle warning was being conveyed by the editor. He also noticed that the other man was not saying anything, and that Forbes expected him to. However, they didn’t have to wait much longer.

The man was short and blocky with a beefy red face and hard gray eyes. He stabbed a slab of beef and brought it to his plate. “Have your fun,” he said, “while you’re able. You won’t last long.”

Blaine shrugged. “Two ways to look at that.”

“Not hereabouts. These folks don’t take kindly to no brash stranger comin’ in here tryin’ to run a blazer on ’em. Joe Neal was hung. He got his neck stretched nigh two weeks ago.”

Blaine’s voice was soft. “Were you there, friend?”

The blue eyes blazed as the man turned his head slowly. “No. But I’ve got it on good authority that he was hung.” He slapped butter on a stack of hot cakes. “I’ll take that as true. The gent who told me should know.”

“It wouldn’t be Lud Fuller, would it?”

The man did not look around this time. He kept spreading butter. “What makes you mention Lud? He was Neal’s foreman.”

“I know that. I also know he was there.” Blaine filled his cup again. “And, friend, I’ll take an oath on that.”

Both men stared at him. The only way he could swear to it would be if he saw it. If he had been there, in the vicinity. The short man shrugged it off and cut off a huge triangle of hot cakes and stuffed them in his mouth. When he could talk again, he said, “You go on out to the ranch. You tell that to Lud. Better have a gun in your hand when you do it, though. Lud’s fast.”

“Is he?” Blaine chuckled. “I’ve known a few fast men.”

Rals Forbes was suddenly staring hard at him. He slammed his palm on the table. “I’m losing my mind,” he said excitedly. “What’s the matter with me? You’re Utah Blaine!”

The stocky man dropped his fork and his mouth opened. He took a deep breath and swallowed, then slowly his tongue went over his lips. The feeling in his stomach was not pleasant. A tough man, he knew his limitations, and he did not rank anywhere near the man as Utah Blaine was reputed to be. Nor, he reflected, did Lud Fuller. There was only one man, maybe two, in all this country around who might have a show with him.

“That’s right,” Utah replied, “I’m that Blaine.”

He got to his feet and Forbes walked to the door with him. There Forbes hesitated briefly and said, “By the way, Blaine, if you make this stick you could do me a favor. There’s a girl homesteading on your range. Right back up against the mountains. Her name is Angela Kinyon. Joe let her stay there, so I hope you will.”

“It’s still Joe Neal’s ranch.”

Forbes looked at him carefully. “All right, leave it that way. Angie’s all right. She’s had a hard time, but she’s all woman and a fine person. Just so she stays, it doesn’t matter.”

“She’ll stay.”

“And watch your step, Utah. Not even you could stop this bunch if they get started. Every man in this country has been poised and ready to jump at the 46 range. They’ll have it, too. I doubt if even Joe’s being alive will stop ’em now. They’ve wanted it too long, and this is the first excuse they’ve had. It would take a hard, gun-fighting outfit to hold it now, and even then it would be a question. One man could never do it.”

“Any of that crowd that could be trusted?”

“I doubt it. When you ride onto 46 range, you ride alone.”

Riding up the trail to the crest of the Tule Mesa, Utah Blaine rolled a cigarette while studying the country. His knowledge of this land might mean the difference between life and death, and he was too competent a fighting man not to devote time to a study of the terrain.

The trail went down off the mesa and into the coolness of a pine forest before cutting through some cedars and down into the valley itself. There were rich green meadows close along the streams, and along the streams there were cottonwoods, willows and sycamore trees. The ranch itself lay in a grove of trees, most of them giant sycamores.

Large and ancient, the ranch house occupied a small knoll among the trees with the barns and corrals below it. As Blaine rode up to the yard he saw a man come out of the bunkhouse with a roll of bedding under his arm and start up the hill toward the house. The sound of his horse stopped the man, who turned to stare at him.

Utah glanced once at the bunkhouse. Another man had come from the door and stood there leaning against the door jamb, a cigarette in his lips. Blaine walked his horse toward the man with the bedding. This, he rightly surmised, would be Lud Fuller.

Fuller was a big man, thick in the waist, but deep in chest and arms bulging with muscle. He was unshaven and had cold, cruel eyes.

Blaine drew up the horse and swung down, trailing the reins. “Are you Fuller?” he asked.

“What d’ you want?” Fuller demanded.

Blaine smiled. “My name is Blaine. I’m the new manager of the outfit. If you’re the foreman, we’ll have business to discuss.”

Fuller was astonished. Of all the things he might have expected, this was certainly not one of them. It took him a minute to get the idea and when it got across to him he was furious. “You’re what!” He dropped his bedding. “Look, stranger, I don’t know what you’ve got in your skull, but if that’s a sign of it, you’re breedin’ a mighty poor brand of humor.”

“This is no joke, Fuller. Joe Neal appointed me manager. I’ve visited the bank and Otten agrees my papers are in order. You’d better take that bedding back to the bunkhouse—unless you’re quitting.”

“Quittin’, hell!” Fuller stepped over his bedding. “Neal’s dead, an’ this here’s a crooked deal!”

Blaine’s eyes were cold. “No, Lud, Neal isn’t dead. He is very much alive. Does that signature look like he was dead?”

Blaine handed the letter to Fuller who glared at it, too filled with fury and disappointment to speak. He was scarcely able to see. Yet the signature was there, and it was Joe Neal’s. Nobody could ever write like that but Neal himself.

“You can’t get away with this!” Fuller’s voice was hoarse.

“I’m not trying to get away with anything, Fuller.” Blaine kept his voice calm. “I’ve been given a job, and I’ve come to take over. From here out you’ll be subject to my orders.”

“Like hell!” Fuller snarled. “I’m boss here and I’ll stay boss. There’s something rotten about this!”

“You’re exactly right. It’s a rotten deal when a man’s friends turn against him and try to hang him for nothing except that they want to steal his ranch. Now get this into your skull, Fuller. You take orders from me or get off the ranch! And you can start right now!”

Fuller was beyond reason. Unable to coordinate his thoughts and realize what had happened, his one instinct was to fight, to strike out, to attack. Despite the fact that he had himself put the rope on Neal, he knew that signature was genuine. But this curbed none of his anger.

Men were coming from the bunkhouse. Only minutes before, Fuller had rolled his bedding and told them he was moving into the big house. They had looked at him, but said nothing. Like himself they wanted to get something out of this new situation. But most of them wanted to strip the ranch of cattle, sell them off and skip. They were men Fuller had hired himself, for Neal had left most of the hiring in his hands. Only Rip Coker had spoken up. He was a hatchet-faced cowhand, tough, blond and wicked. “I’d go slow if I were you,” he had said, “the old man might show up.”

“He won’t.”

“You seem mighty sure of that. Maybe you made sure he won’t.”

Fuller had glared, but something in him warned that Coker would be no easy task in a gun fight. With his hands—well, Lud Fuller had never been whipped with fists. But the lean, wiry Coker was not the man to fight with his hands. Therefore Fuller had merely turned and walked up the hill with his bedroll. Now he was stopped and he could hear them coming, Coker among them.

“Joe Neal,” Fuller persisted, “is dead. I’m takin’ over.”

Blaine shook his head. “Sorry to tear down your dream house,” he said, “but you’re just a little previous. Get back to the bunkhouse with your bed or load up and get off the place.”

Blaine turned to the seven men who had come up the hill. “I’m Blaine, the new manager here. I have shown my papers to Fuller. Before that I showed them to Otten. They are in order. Any of you men who want to draw your time can have it. Any of you that want to stay, you have a job. Think it over. I’ll see you at chuck.”

Deliberately he turned his back and started up the hill to the house.

Fuller stared after him. “Hey! You!” he yelled.

Blaine kept on walking. Opening the door to the house, he stepped inside.

Rip Coker chuckled suddenly. “Looks like you should of took my advice, Lud. You jumped the gun.”

“He won’t get away with this!” Lud said furiously.

“Looks to me like he already has,” Coker said. “Don’t you try buckin’ that hombre, Lud. He’s out of your class.”

Lud Fuller was too angry to listen. Slowly, the men turned. There was muttering among them, for several had already been spending the money they expected to get from the stolen cattle. Now it was over. Coker looked toward the house with a glint in his eyes; then he began to chuckle softly. The situation appealed to him. It had done him good to see the way Blaine turned Fuller off short. But what was to happen next?

Wiser than Fuller, Coker had complete appreciation of the situation in the Red Creek country. Fuller might grab the ranch, but he would never keep it. He was only one wolf among many who wanted this range; and his teeth were not sharp enough, his brain not keen enough. In this game of guns, grab and get, he would be out-grabbed and out-gunned.

Rip Coker rolled a smoke and squinted at the blue hills. There would be some shuffling now. It seemed like one man against them all, and the odds appealed to Rip. He chuckled softly to himself.

Lud Fuller walked back to the bunkhouse and slammed his bedroll on the bunk. He glared right and left, looking for something on which he could take out his fury. Then he stalked outside and walked toward the corral. He would ride over and see Nevers. He would see Clell Miller, on the B-Bar. Something would have to be done about this and quick.

Coker watched him saddle up and ride out; then he turned and walked up the steps to the house. He was going to declare himself. As he reached for the door, Blaine pulled it open and stepped out. He had his coat off and he was wearing his two guns low. Rip Coker felt a little flicker of excitement go through him: this man was ready.

“My name’s Coker,” he said abruptly. “Been on this spread about four months. I’m the newest hand.”

“All right, Coker. What’s on your mind?”

“Looks like you’re in for a scrap.”

“I expected that.”

“You’re all alone.”

“I expected that, too.” Blaine grinned briefly. “Tell me something I don’t know, friend.”

Coker finished rolling his smoke. “Me,” he said, without looking up. “I always was a sucker. I’m declaring myself in—on your side.”

“Why?”

Coker’s chuckle was dry. “Maybe because I’m just ornery an’ like to buck a tough game. Maybe it’s because I don’t like fightin’ with a gang. Maybe it’s just because I want to be on your side when you’re pushed.”

“Those are all good reasons with me.” Blaine thrust out his hand. “Glad to have you with me, Coker. I won’t warn you. You know the setup better than I do.”

“I figure I do.” Coker nodded toward the north. “Up there are about thirty land-hungry little ranchers. They are tougher’n boot leather, an’ most of them have rustled a few head in their time. The B-Bar has a foreman named Clell Miller. He’s a cousin of one of the old James’ crowd and just as salty. He’s a whiz with a six-gun and he’ll tackle anything. He’s figurin’ on ownin’ the B-Bar when the fight’s over. And he figures on having added to it all that land between Skeleton Ridge and the river—which is 46 range.”

“I see.”

“Then see this. Ben Otten’s friendly enough, a square man, but range hungry as the rest. If the thing breaks up, he’ll come in grabbin’ for his chunk of it.”

“And the rest?”

“Fuller, Miller and Nevers are the worst.”

“What about Lee Fox?”

Coker hesitated. “I don’t figure him. He’s poison mean, killed two of his hands about a year ago. Nobody figured him for a gun-slick, but when they braced him he came loose like a wildcat and he spit lead all over.”

“Any others?”

“Uh huh. There’s Rink Witter. He’s Nevers’ right hand.”