The Lawless West (19 page)

Gathering a few sticks, I added them to the fire already laid, but under them I put a half dozen shotgun shells. In the tool shed were six sticks of powder and some fuse left from blasting rocks.

Digging out a crack at one corner of the fireplace, I put two sticks of dynamite into the crack, then ran the fuse within two inches of the fire and covered it with ashes. The shotgun shells would explode and scatter the fire, igniting, I hoped, the fuse.

A slow hour passed after I returned to a hideout in the brush. What was happening at the Two Bar? In any kind of fight one has to have confidence in those fighting with him, and I had it in the men I’d left behind me. If one of them was killed, I vowed never to stop until all this crowd were finished.

Sweat trickled down my face. It was hot under the brush. Once a rattler crawled by within six or seven feet of me. A pack rat stared at me, then moved on. Crows quarreled in the trees over my head. And then I saw the riders.

One look told me. Whatever had happened at the Two Bar, I knew these men were not victorious. There were nine in the group, and two were bandaged. One had his arm in a sling, one had his skull bound up. Another man was tied over a saddle, head and heels hanging. They rode down the hill and I lifted my rifle, waiting for them to get closer to the ranch. Then I fired three times as rapidly as I could squeeze off the shots.

One horse sprang into the air, spun halfway around, scattering the group, then fell, sending his rider sprawling. The others rushed for the shelter of the buildings, but just as they reached them, one man toppled from his horse, hit the dirt like a sack of old clothes, and rolled over in the dust. He staggered to his feet and rushed toward the barn, fell again, then got up and ran on.

Others made a break for the house, and the first one to hit those greasy steps was Jim Pinder. He hit them running, his feet flew out from under him, and he hit the step on his chin. With a yell, the others charged by him, and even at that distance I could hear the crash of their falling, their angry shouts, and then the roaring sneezes and gasping
yells as the red pepper filled the air and bit into their nostrils.

Coolly I proceeded to shoot out the windows, to knock the hinges off the door, and, when Jim Pinder staggered to his feet and reached for his hat, I put a bullet through the hat. He jumped as if stung and grabbed for his pistol. He swung it up, and I fired again as he did. What happened to his shot I never knew, but he dropped the pistol with a yell and plunged for the door.

One man had ducked for the heavily planked water trough and now he fired at me. Invisible from my position, I knew that he was somewhere under the trough, and so I drilled the trough with two quick shots, draining the water down upon him. He jumped to escape, and I put bullets into the dust to the left and right of his position. Like it or not, he had to lie there while all the water ran over him. A few scattered shots stampeded their horses, and then I settled down to wait for time to bring the real fireworks.

A few shots came my way after a while, but all were high or low and none came close to me.

Taking my time, I loaded up for the second time, and then rolled a smoke. My buckskin was in a low place and had cover from the shots. There was no way they could escape from the house to approach me. One wounded man had fallen near the barn, and I let him get up and limp toward it. Every once in a while somebody would fall inside the house and in the clear air I could hear the sound and each time I couldn’t help but grin.

There was smashing and banging inside the house, and I could imagine what was happening. They were looking for coffee and not finding it. A
few minutes later a slow trickle of smoke came out the chimney. My head resting on the palm of one hand, I took a deep drag on my cigarette and waited happily for the explosions.

They came, and suddenly. There was the sharp bark of a shotgun shell exploding, then a series of bangs as the others went off. Two men rushed from the door and charged for the barn. Bullets into the dust hurried them to shelter, and I laid back and laughed heartily. I’d never felt so good in my life, picturing the faces of those tired, disgruntled men, besieged in the cabin, unable to make coffee, sliding on the greasy floor, sneezing from the red pepper, ducking shotgun shells from the fire.

Not five minutes had passed when the powder went off with terrific concussion. I had planted it better than I knew, for it not only cracked the fireplace but blew a hole in it from which smoke gulped, then trickled slowly.

Rising, I drifted back to my horse and headed for the ranch. Without doubt the CP outfit was beginning to learn what war meant, and, furthermore, I knew my methods were far more exasperating to the cowhands than an out-and-out fight. Your true cowhand savors a good scrap, but he does not like discomfort or annoyance, and I knew that going without water, without good food, and without coffee would do more to end the fight than anything else. All the same, as I headed the gelding back toward the Two Bar, I knew that, if any of my own boys had been killed, I would retaliate in kind. There could be no other answer.

Mulvaney greeted me at the door. “Sure, Matt, you missed a good scrap! We give them lads the fight of their lives!”
Jolly and Jonathan looked up at me. Jolly grinning, the more serious Jonathan smiling faintly. Jolly showed me a bullet burn on his arm, the only scratch any of them had suffered.

They had been watching, taking turn about, determined they would not be caught asleep while I was gone. The result was that they sighted the CP riders when they were still miles from the headquarters of the Two Bar. The Benaras boys began it with a skirmishers’ battle, firing from rocks and brush in a continual running fight. A half dozen times they drove the CP riders to shelter, killing two horses and wounding a man.

They had retreated steadily until in a position to be covered by Mulvaney, who was ready with all the spare arms loaded. From the bunkhouse they stood off the attack. They had so many loaded weapons that there was no break in their fire until the CP retreated.

“Somebody didn’t want to fight,” Jolly explained. “We seen ’em argufyin’ an’ then finally somebody else joined in, an’ they backed out on Pinder. He was almighty sore, believe you me.”

Amid much laughter I told them about my own attack on the CP.

Mulvaney ended it suddenly. “Hey!” he turned swiftly. “I forgot to tell yer. That catamount of a Bodie Miller done shot Canaval!”

“Is he dead?”

“Not the last we heard, but he’s hurt mighty bad. He took four bullets before he went down.”

“Miller?”

“Never got a scratch. That kid’s plumb poison, I tell you. Poison.”

For a minute I considered that, and liked none of it. Canaval had been a man with whom I could reason. More than that, with Canaval at hand there had always been protection for Olga.

There was no time to be wasted now. Telling Mulvaney of what I had seen in the cañon, I turned my buckskin toward the Bar M. I wanted first of all to talk with Olga, and second to see Canaval. If the man was alive, I had to talk to him. The gun star of Bodie Miller was rising now, and I knew how he would react. This new shooting would only serve to convince him of his speed. The confidence he had lacked on our first meeting he would now have.

He would not wait long to kill again, and he would seek out some known gunfighter, for his reputation could only grow now by killing the good ones, and Canaval had been one of the fastest around. And who would that mean? Jim Pinder, Morgan Park, or
myself. And knowing how he felt about me, I had an idea who he would be seeking out.

Key Chapin was standing on the wide verandah of the Bar M house when I rode into the yard. Fox was loitering nearby and he started toward me. “You ain’t wanted here, Sabre,” he told me brusquely. “Get off the place.”

“Don’t be a fool, man. I’ve come on business.”

He shook his head stubbornly. “Don’t make no diff’rence. Start movin’ an’ don’t reach for a gun. You’re covered from the bunkhouse an’ the barn.”

“Fox,” I persisted, “I’ve no row with you, and you’re the last man in the world I’d like to kill, but I don’t like being pushed, and you’re pushin’ me. I’ve got Bodie Miller an’ Morgan Park to take care of, as well as Jim Pinder. So get this straight. If you want to die, grab iron. Don’t ride me, Fox, because I won’t take it.”

My buckskin started, and Fox, his face a study in conflicting emotion, hesitated. Then a cool voice interposed. “Fox! Step back! Let the gentleman come up.”

It was Olga Maclaren.

Fox hesitated, then stepped back, and I drew up the buckskin for a minute. Fox looked up at me, and our eyes met. “I’m glad of that, Fox,” I said. “I’d hate to have killed a man as good as you. They don’t come often.”

The sincerity in my voice must have reached him, for when I happened to glance back, he was staring after me, his face puzzled. As I dismounted, Chapin walked over toward the house.

Olga stood on the steps, awaiting me. There was no welcome in her eyes. Her face was cool, composed. “There was something you wanted?”

“Is that my only welcome?”

“What reason have you to expect anything more?”

That made me shrug. “None,” I said, “none at all. How’s Canaval?”

“Resting.”

“Is he better? Is he conscious?”

“Yes to both questions. Can he see anybody? No.”

Then I heard him speak. “Sabre? Is that you? Come in!”

Olga hesitated, and for a minute I believed she was going to defy the request, then with a shrug of indifference she led Chapin and me into the wounded man’s room.

The foreman’s appearance shocked me. He was drawn and thin, his eyes huge and hollow in the deathly pallor of his face. His hand gripped mine and he stared up at me. “Glad you’re here, Sabre,” he said abruptly. “Watch that little demon. Oh, he’s a fast man. He’s blinding. He had a bullet into me before my gun cleared. He’s a freak, Sabre.”

“Sure,” I agreed, “but that isn’t what I came about. I came to tell you again. I had nothing to do with killing Rud Maclaren.”

He nodded slightly. “I’m sure of it.” I could feel Olga behind me. “I found…tracks. Not yours. Horse tracks, and tracks of a man carrying a heavy burden. Small feet.”

Chapin interrupted suddenly. “Sabre, I’ve a message for you. Picked it up in Silver Reef yesterday.” He handed me a telegram, still sealed. Ripping it open, I saw there what I had expected.

MY BROTHER UNHEARD OF IN MANY MONTHS. MORGAN PARK ANSWERS DESCRIPTION OF PARK CANTWELL, WANTED
FOR MURDER AND EMBEZZLEMENT OF REGIMENTAL FUNDS. COMING WEST.

LEO D’ARCY COL. 12TH CAVALRY

Without comment, I handed the message back to Chapin, who read it aloud. Olga grew pale, but she said nothing.

“Know anything about the case?” Canaval asked Chapin.

The editor nodded. “Yes, I do. It was quite an exciting case at the time. Park Cantwell was a captain in the cavalry. He embezzled some twenty thousand dollars, then murdered his commanding officer when faced with it. He got away, was recaptured, and then broke jail and killed two men in the process. He was last heard of in Mexico.”

“Not much chance of a mistake, is there?”

“None,” Chapin said, “or very slight. Not many men are so big, and he is a striking character. Out West here he probably believed he would not be discovered. Most of his time he spent on that lonely ranch of his, and he rarely was around town until lately. Apparently, if this is true, he hoped to realize enough money out of this deal of his with Jake Booker to retire in Mexico or elsewhere. Probably in this remote corner of the West, he believed he might never be recognized.”

“And now?” Olga asked. “What will happen?”

Chapin shrugged. “I’ll take this message to Sheriff Will Tharp, and then we’ll wait for D’Arcy to arrive.”

“There’s not much else we can do,” I agreed.

“What is it Park and Booker want?” Chapin wondered. “I don’t grasp their motive.”

“Who does?” I shrugged.

Olga had not looked at me. Several times I tried to catch her eyes, but she avoided my glance. Her face was quiet, composed, and she was, as always, perfectly poised. Not by so much as a flicker of an eyelash did she betray her feelings toward me, but I found no comfort in that. Whether or not she believed I had killed her father, she obviously wanted no part of me.

Discouraged, I turned toward the door.

“Where to now?” Canaval asked.

“Why”—I turned—“I’m heading for town to see Morgan Park. No man ever beat me with his fists yet and walked away scot-free. I’ll have the hide off that brute, and now is as good a time as any.”

“Leave him alone. Sabre!” Canaval tried to sit up. “I’ve seen him kill a man with his fists!”

“He won’t kill me.”

“What is this?” Olga turned around, her eyes blazing. “A cheap childish desire for revenge? Or are you talking just to make noise? It seems all I’ve heard you do since you came here is to talk. You’ve no right to go in there and start trouble. You’ve no right to fight Morgan Park simply because he beat you. Leave him alone.”

“Protecting him?” My voice was not pleasant. Did she, I wondered, actually love the man? The idea did not appeal to me, and the more it stayed in my mind the more angry I became.

“No!” she flared. “I am not protecting him! From what I saw of you after that first fight, I don’t believe it is he who needs the protection.”

She could have said nothing more likely to bring all my own temper to the surface. So when she spoke, I listened, my face stiffening. Then without another word I turned and walked from the room. I went down the steps to my horse, and into the saddle.

The buckskin leaned into the wind and kept the fast pace I set for him. Despite my fury, I kept my eyes open and on the hills. Right then, I would have welcomed a fight and any kind of a fight. I was mad all the way through, burning with it.

And perhaps it was lucky that right then I should round a bend of the trail and come into the midst of Jack Slade and his men. They had not heard me until I rounded the bend, and they were heading the same way I was, toward town. The sudden sound of horse’s hoofs turned their heads, and Slade dove for his gun.

He was too late. Mad clear through, the instant I saw them I slammed the spurs into my startled buckskin. The horse gave a lunge, driving between the last two riders and striking Slade’s horse with his shoulder. At the same instant, I lashed out with the barrel of my Colt and laid it above the ear of the nearest rider. He went off his horse as if struck by lightning, and I swung around, blasting a shot from my belt that knocked the gun from the hand of another rider. Slade was fighting his maddened horse, and I leaned over and hit it a crack with my hat. The horse gave a tremendous leap and started to run like a scared rabbit with Slade fighting to stay in the saddle. He had lost one stirrup when my horse lunged into his and had not recovered it. The last I saw of him was his running horse and a cloud of dust. It all happened in a split second, and one man had a smashed hand, one was knocked out, and Slade was fighting his horse.

The fourth man had been maneuvering for a shot at me, but among the plunging horses he was afraid of hitting his own friends. Wheeling my horse, I fired as he did and both of us missed. He tried to steady his horse and swung. Buck did not like it and was fighting to get away. I let him go, taking a backward
shot at the man in the saddle, a shot that must have clipped his ear for he ducked like a bee-stung farmer, and then Buck was laying them down on the trail to town.

Feeding shells into my gun, I let him run. I felt better for the action and was ready for anything. The town loomed up, and I rode in and swung down in front of Mother O’Hara’s. Buck’s side looked bad, for the spurs had bit deep, and I’m a man who rarely touches a spur to a horse. After greasing the wounds and talking Buck into friendship again, I went inside.

There was nobody around, but Katie O’Hara came out of her kitchen. One look at me and she could see I was spoiling for trouble. “Morgan Park in town?”

She did not hesitate. “He is that. A moment ago I heard he was in the saloon.”

Morgan Park was there, all right. He was sitting at a table with Jake Booker, and they both looked up when I entered. I didn’t waste any time. I walked up to them.

“Booker,” I said, “I’ve heard you’re a no-account shyster, a sheep-stealin’, small-town shyster, at that. But you’re doing business with a thief and a murderer, and the man I’m going to whip.” With that I grabbed the table and hurled it out of the way, and then I slapped Morgan Park across the mouth with my hat.

Morgan Park came off his chair with a roar. He lunged and came up fast, and I smashed him in the teeth with a left. His lips flattened and blood showered from his mouth, and then I threw a right that caught him flush on the chin—and I threw it hard!

He blinked, but he never stopped coming, and he rushed me, swinging with both of those huge, ironlike
fists. One of them rang bells on my skull and the other dug for my midsection with a blow I partially blocked with an elbow, then I turned with his arm over my shoulder, and I threw him bodily across the floor against the bar rail. He came up fast, and I nailed him with another left. Then he caught me with both hands, and sparks danced among the stars in my skull. That old smoky taste came up inside of me, and the taste of blood in my mouth, and I walked in smashing with both hands! Something busted on his face, and his brow was cut to the bone and the blood was running all over him.

There was a crowd around, and they were yelling, but I heard no sound. I walked in, bobbing and weaving to miss as many of those jarring, brutal blows as possible, but they kept landing and battering me. He knocked me back into the bar, and then grabbed a bottle. He took a terrific cut at my skull, and I ducked, smashing him in the ribs. He staggered and sprawled out of balance from the force of his missed swing, and I rushed him and took a flying leap at his shoulders. I landed astride and jammed both spurs into his thighs and he let out a roar of agony.

I went over his head, lighting on all fours, and he sprang atop my back. I flattened out on the floor with the feeling that he had me. He was yelling like a madman, and he grabbed my hair and began to beat my head against the floor. How I did it I’ll never know, but I bowed my back under his weight and forced myself to my hands and knees. He ripped at me with his own spurs, and then I got his leg, and threw him off.

Coming up together, we circled, more wary now. His shirt was in ribbons, and he was covered with
blood. I’d never seen Morgan stripped before. He had a chest and shoulders like a Hercules. He circled, and then came into me, snarling. I nailed that snarl into his teeth with both fists, and we stood there swinging them freely with both hands, rocking with the power of those punches and smelling of sweat, blood, and fury.

He backed up, and I went into him. Suddenly he caught my upper arms and, dropping, put a foot in my stomach and threw me over his head! For a fleeting instant I was flying through the air, and then I lit on a poker table and grabbed the sides with both hands. It went over on top of me, and that was all that saved me as he rushed in to finish me with the boots. I shoved the table at him and came up off the floor, and he hit me again, and I went right back down. He dropped a big palm on my head and shoved me at the floor. I sprawled out and he kicked me in the side. It missed my ribs and glanced off my gun belt, and I rolled over and grabbed his boot, twisting hard.

It threw him off balance and he hit the floor, which gave me a chance to get on my feet. I got him just as he was halfway up with a right that knocked him through the door and out onto the porch. I hit the porch in a jump, and he tackled me around the knees. We both were down then, and I slapped him with a cupped hand over his ear and knew from the way he let go that I’d busted an eardrum for him. I dropped him again with a solid right to the chin, and stood back, gasping and pain-wracked, fighting for breath. He got up more slowly, and I nailed him, left and right in the mouth, and he went down heavily.

Sprawled out, he lay there on the edge of the walk, one hand trailing in the dust, and I stared
down at him. He was finished, through! Turning on my heels, I walked back inside, and, brushing off those who crowded around me, I headed for the bar. I took the glass of whiskey that was shoved at me and poured it in my hands and mopped the cuts on the lower part of my face with it. Then I took a quick gulp from the glass that was again put before me, and turned.

Morgan Park was standing three feet away from me, a bloody, battered giant with cold, ugly fury blazing from his eyes. “Give me a drink!” he bellowed.

He picked up the glass and tossed it off. “Another!” he yelled, while I stared at him. He picked that up, lifted it to his lips, then threw it in my eyes!