The Lawless West (13 page)

My lips were swollen and bloody. “You lie!” I said, and he kicked me again, then stepped over me and walked away, whistling.

Somehow I got my arms under me. Somehow I dragged myself against the stage station wall, and then I lay there, my head throbbing like a great drum, the blood slowly drying on my split lips and broken face. It had been a beating I’d taken, and the marvel of it was with me. I’d not been licked since I was a lad, and never in all my days had I felt such blows as these. His fists were like knots of oak, and the arms behind them like the limbs of a tree.

I had a broken rib, I thought, but one thing I knew. It was time for me to travel. Never would I have the daughter of Maclaren see me like this!

My hands found the building corner and I pulled myself to my feet, and, staggering behind the buildings,
I got to the corner of the livery stable. Entering, I got to my horse, and somehow I got the saddle on him and led him out of the door. And then I stopped for an instant in the light.

Across the way, on the stoop of Mother O’Hara’s, was Olga Maclaren!

The light was on my face, swollen, bloody, and broken. She stepped down off the porch and came over to me, looking up, her eyes wide with wonder. “So it’s you. He found you then. He always hears, and this always happens. You see, it is not so simple a thing to marry Olga Maclaren.” There seemed almost regret in her voice. “And now you’re leaving.”

“Leaving? That I am, but I’ll be back!” The words fumbled through my swollen lips. “Have your trousseau ready, daughter of Maclaren. I mean what I say. Wait for me. I’ll be coming again, darlin’, and, when I do, it will be first to tear down Morgan Park’s great hulk, to rip him with my fists.”

There was coolness in her voice, shaded with contempt. “You boast! All you have done is talk…and taken a beating!”

That made me grin, and the effort made me wince, but I looked down at her. “It’s a bad beginning at that, isn’t it? But wait for me, darlin’, I’ll be coming back.”

I could feel her watching me ride down the street.

Throughout the night I rode into wilder and wilder country, always with the thought of what faced me. At daybreak, I bedded down in a cañon tall with pines, resting there while my side began to mend. My thoughts returned again and again to the shocking power of those punches I had taken. It was true the man had slugged me unexpectedly, and once pinned down I’d had no chance against his great weight. Nonetheless, I’d been whipped soundly. Within me there was a gnawing eagerness to go back—and not with guns. This man I must whip with my hands.

The Two Bar was the key to the situation. Could it be had with a gun and some blarney? The beating I’d taken rankled, and the contempt of Olga Maclaren, and with it the memory of the hatred of Jim Pinder and the coldness of Rud Maclaren. On the morning of the third day I mounted the buckskin and turned him toward the Two Bar.

A noontime sun was darkening my buckskin with
sweat when I turned up Cottonwood Wash. There was green grass here, and trees, and the water that trickled down was clear and pure. The walls of the wash were high and the trees towered to equal them, and the occasional cattle looked fat and lazy, far better than elsewhere on this range. The path ended abruptly in a gate bearing a large sign in white letters against a black background.

TWO BAR GATE RANGED FOR A SPENCER .56 SHOOTING GOING ON HERE

Ball evidently had his own ideas. No trespasser who got a bullet could say he hadn’t been warned. Beyond this gate a man took his own chances. Taking off my hat, I rose in my stirrups and waved it toward the house.

A gun boomed, and I heard the sharp
whap
of a bullet whipping past. It was a warning shot, so I merely waved once more. That time the bullet was close, so I grabbed my chest with both hands and slid from the saddle to the ground. Speaking to the buckskin, I rolled over behind a boulder. Leaving my hat on the ground in plain sight, I removed a boot and placed it to be seen from the gate. Then I crawled into the brush, from where I could cover the gate.

Several minutes later, Ball appeared. Without coming through the gate, he couldn’t see the boot was empty. He was a tall old man with a white handlebar mustache and shrewd eyes. No fool, he studied the layout carefully, but to all appearances his aim had miscalculated and scored a hit. He glanced at the strange brand on the buckskin and at the California bridle and bit. Finally he opened the gate
and came out, and, as he moved toward my horse, his back turned toward me. “Freeze, Ball! You’re dead in my sights!”

He stood still. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What you want with me?”

“No trouble. I came to talk business.”

“I got no business with anybody.”

“You’ve business with me. I’m Matt Sabre. I’ve had a run in with Jim Pinder and told off Maclaren when he told me to leave. I’ve taken a beating from Morgan Park.”

Ball chuckled. “You say you want no trouble with me, but, from what you say, you’ve had it with ever’-body else.”

He turned at my word, and I holstered my gun. He stepped back far enough to see the boot, then he grinned. “Good trick. I’ll not bite on that one again. What you want?”

Pulling on my boot and retrieving my hat, I told him. “I’ve no money. I’m a fighting man and a sucker for the tough side of any scrap. When I rode into Hattan’s Point, I figured on trouble, but when I saw Olga Maclaren, I decided to stay and marry her. I’ve told her so.”

“No wonder Park beat you. He’s run off the local lads.” He studied me curiously. “What did she say?”

“Very little, and, when I told her I was coming back to face Park again, she thought I was loud-mouthed.”

“Aim to try him again?”

“I’m going to whip him. But that’s not all. I plan to stay in this country, and there’s only one ranch in this country I want or would have.”

Ball’s lips thinned. “This one?”

“It’s the best, and anybody who owns it stands in
the middle of trouble. I’d be mighty uncomfortable anywhere else.”

“What you aim to do about me? This here’s my ranch.”

“Let’s walk up to your place and talk it over.”

“We’ll talk here.” Ball’s hands were on his hips and I had no doubt he’d go for a gun if I made a wrong move. “Speak your piece.”

“All right. Here it is. You’re buckin’ a stacked deck. Gamblers are offerin’ thirty to one you won’t last thirty days. Both Maclaren and Pinder are out to get you. What I want is a fighting, working partnership. Or you sell out and I’ll pay you when I can. I’ll take over the fight.”

He nodded toward the house. “Come on up. We’ll talk this over.”

Two hours later the deal was ironed out. He could not stay awake every night. He could not work and guard his stock. He could not go to town for supplies. Together we could do all of it.

“You’ll be lucky if you last a week,” he told me. “When they find out, they’ll be fit to be tied.”

“They won’t find out right away. First I’ll buy supplies and ammunition, and get back here.”

“Good idea. But leave Morgan Park alone. He’s as handy with a gun as his fists.”

The Two Bar controlled most of Cottonwood Wash and on its eastern side opened into the desert wilderness with only occasional patches of grass and much desert growth. Maclaren’s Bar M and Pinder’s CP bordered the ranch on the west, with Maclaren’s range extending to the desert land in one portion, but largely west of the Two Bar.

Both ranches had pushed the Two Bar cattle back,
usurping the range for their own use. In the process of pushing them north, most of the Two Bar calves had vanished under Bar M or CP brands. “Mostly the CP,” Ball advised. “Them Pinders are pizen mean. Rollie rode with the James boys a few times, and both of them were with Quantrill. Jim’s a fast gun, but nothin’ to compare with Rollie.”

At daylight, with three unbranded mules to carry the supplies, I started for Hattan’s Point, circling around to hit the trail on the side away from the Two Bar. The town was quiet enough, and the day warm and still. As I loaded the supplies, I was sweating. The sweat trickled into my eyes and my side pained me. My face was still puffed, but both my eyes were now open. Leading my mules out of town, I concealed them in some brush with plenty of grass, and then returned to Mother O’Hara’s.

Key Chapin and Canaval were there, and Canaval looked up at me. “Had trouble?” he asked. “That job at the Bar M is still open.”

“Thanks. I’m going to run my own outfit.” Foolish though it was, I said it. Olga had come in the door behind me, her perfume told me who it was, and even without it something in my blood would have told me. From that day on she was never to be close to me without my knowledge. It was something deep and exciting that was between us.

“Your own outfit?” They were surprised. “You’re turning nester?”

“No. Ranching.” Turning, I swept off my hat and indicated the seat beside me. “Miss Maclaren? May I have the pleasure?”

Her green eyes were level and measuring. She hesitated, then shook her head. Walking around the table, she seated herself beside Canaval.

Chapin was puzzled. “You’re ranching? If there’s any open range around here, I don’t know of it.”

“It’s a place over east of here,” I replied lightly. “The Two Bar.”

“What about the Two Bar?” Rud Maclaren had come in. He stood, cold and solid, staring down at me.

Olga glanced up at her father, some irony in her eyes. “Mister Sabre was telling us that he is ranching…on the Two Bar.”

“What?” Glasses and cups jumped at his voice, and Ma O’Hara hurried in from her kitchen, rolling pin in hand.

“That’s right.” I was enjoying it. “I’ve a working partnership with Ball. He needed help, and I didn’t want to leave despite all the invitations I was getting.” Then I added: “A man dislikes being far from the girl he’s to marry.”

“What’s that?” Maclaren demanded, his eyes puzzled.

“Why, Father”—Olga’s eyes widened—“haven’t you heard? The whole town is talking of it. Mister Sabre has said he is going to marry me.”

“I’ll see him in hell first!” Maclaren replied flatly. “Young man, you stop using my daughter’s name or you’ll face me.”

“No one,” I said quietly, “has more respect for your daughter’s name than I. It’s true that I’ve said she was to be my wife. That is not disrespectful, and it’s certainly true. As for facing you, I’d rather not. I’d like to keep peace with my future father-in-law.”

Canaval chuckled and even Olga seemed amused. Key Chapin looked up at Rud. “One aspect of this may have escaped you. Sabre is now a partner of Ball. Why not make it easy for Sabre to stay on, then buy him out?”

Maclaren’s head lifted as he absorbed the idea. He looked at me with new interest. “We might do business, young man.”

“We might,” I replied, “but not under threats. Nor do I intend to sell out my partner. Nor did I take the partnership with any idea of selling out. Tomorrow or the next day I shall choose a building site. Also, I expect to restock the Two Bar range. All of which brings me to the point of this discussion. It has come to my attention that Bar M cattle are trespassing on Two Bar range. You have just one week to remove them. The same goes for the CP. You’ve been told and you understand. I hope we’ll have no further trouble.”

Maclaren’s face purpled with fury. Before he could find words to reply, I was on my feet. “It’s been nice seeing you,” I told Olga. “If you care to help plan your future home, why don’t you ride over?”

With that, I stepped out the door before Maclaren could speak. Circling the building, I headed for my horse.

Pinder’s black-haired man was standing there with a gun in his hand. Hatred glared from his eyes. “Figured you pulled a smart one, hey?” he sneered. “Now I’ll kill you!”

His finger started to whiten with pressure, and I hurled myself aside and palmed my gun. Even before I could think, my gun jarred in my hand. Once. Twice.

Blacky’s bullet had torn my shirt collar and left a trace of blood on my neck. Blacky stared at me, then lifted to his toes and fell, measuring his length upon the hard ground.

Men rushed from the buildings, crowding
around. “Seen it,” one man explained quietly. “Blacky laid for him with a drawed gun.”

Canaval was among the men. He looked at me with cool, attentive gaze. “A drawn gun? That was fast, man.”

Ball was at the gate when I arrived. “Trouble?” he asked quickly.

My account was brief. “Well, one less for later,” said Ball. “If it had to be anybody, it’s better it was Blacky, but now the Pinders will be after you.”

“Where does Morgan Park stand?” I asked. “And what about Key Chapin?”

“Park?” Ball said. “He’s fixin’ to marry the Maclaren girl. That’s where his bread’s buttered. He’s got him a ranch on the Arizona line, but he don’t stay there much. Chapin publishes the
Rider’s Voice,
a better newspaper’n you’d expect in this country. He’s also a lawyer, plays a good hand of poker, an’ never carries a gun. If anybody isn’t takin’ sides, it’s him.”

Mostly I considered the cattle situation. Our calves had been rustled by the large outfits, and, if we were to prosper, we must get rid of the stock we now had and get some young stuff. Our cattle would never be in better shape, and would get older and tougher. Now was the time to sell. A drive was impossible, for two of us couldn’t be away at once, and nobody wanted any part of a job with the Two Bar. Ball was frankly discouraged. “No use, Matt. They got us bottled up. We’re through whenever they want to take us.”

An idea occurred to me. “By the way, when I was drifting down around Organ Rock the other day, I spotted an outfit down there in the hills. Know ’em?”

Ball’s head came up sharply. “Should have
warned you. Stay away. That’s the Benaras place, the B Bar B brand. There’s six in the family that I know of, an’ they have no truck with anybody. Dead shots, all of ’em. Few years back some rustlers run off some of their stock. Nobody heard no more about it until Sheriff Will Tharp was back in the badlands east of here. He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of man nor beast for miles when suddenly he comes on six skeletons hanging from a rock tower.”

“Skeletons?”

Ball took the pipe from his mouth and spat. “Six of ’em, an’ a sign hung to ’em readin’…‘They rustled B Bar B cows.’ Nothin’ more.”

But quite enough! The Benaras outfit had been let strictly alone after that. Nevertheless, an idea was in my mind, and the very next morning I saddled up and drifted south.

It was wild and lonely country, furrowed and eroded by thousands of years of sun, wind, and rain. A country tumbled and broken as if by an insane giant. Miles of raw, unfleshed land with only occasional spots of green to break its everlasting reds, pinks, and whites. Like an oasis, there appeared a sudden cluster of trees, green fields, and fat, drifting cattle. “Whoever these folks are, Buck,” I commented to my horse, “they work hard.”

The
click
of a drawn back hammer froze Buck in his tracks, and carefully I kept my hands on the saddle horn. “Goin’ somewhar, stranger?” Nobody was in sight among the boulders at the edge of the field.

“Yes. I’m looking for the boss of the B Bar B.”

“What might you want with him?”

“Business talk. I’m friendly.”

The chuckle was dry. “Ever see a man covered by two Spencers that wasn’t friendly?”

The next was a girl’s voice. “Who you ridin’ for?”

“I’m Matt Sabre, half owner of the Two Bar, Ball’s outfit.”

“You mean that ol’ coot took a partner? You could be lyin’.”

“Do I see the boss?”

“I reckon.” A tall boy of eighteen stepped from the rocks. Lean and drawn, his hatchet face looked tough and wise. He carried his Spencer as if it was part of him. He motioned with his head.

The old man of the tribe was standing in front of a house built like a fort. Tall as his son, he was straight as a lodgepole pine. He looked me up and down, then said: “Get down an’ set.”

A stout motherly woman put out some cups and poured coffee. Explaining who I was, I said: “We’ve some fat stock about ready to drive. I’d like to make a swap for some of your young stuff. We can’t make a drive, don’t dare even leave the place or they’d steal it from us. Our stock is in good shape, but all our young stuff has been rustled.”