War on the Cimarron (13 page)

Then the last steer swept by the chuck wagon, and Frank reined up, the reek of dust strong in his nostrils.

Beach, on the heels of the frantic steers, emptied his gun into the air and then yelled while he reloaded. Off to the right a mounted figure loomed up, and Beach pulled over toward it and yelled above the thunder of the herd, “That you, Red?”

As soon as he did it he knew he had disobeyed Frank's last word. The mounted figure shot at him then, and Beach felt a cold crawling sensation in his spine. It was a night herder he had mistaken for Red.

He leaned down over his horse's neck, and this time he remembered Frank had said no fighting. But this rider had heard him call out to Red, knew him for a stranger and had shot. If that word got back to Milabel, the secret was lost. And on top of that Beach found he had spurred into the herd and that the cattle were crowding his horse over toward the hostile night herder.

Pure panic seized Beach then. He would have to shoot in self-defense, have to stop this man's mouth. He swung up his gun, caught the tall form of the night herder silhouetted against the sky, and with shaking hand he pulled the trigger. The man went out of the saddle as though an invisible hand had brushed him.

In sheer terror, then, Beach fought his horse out of the herd, letting the few cattle drift by. In the dust haze he saw another rider pulled up outside the circle of the firelight. It was Frank.

Then, as the thunder of the herd died a little, he heard Frank's voice lifted: “Cook!”

Beach pulled up, watching. The cook swiveled his head and called, “Who is it?”

Frank said, “Go back and tell Milabel he better buy whisky next time instead of stealin' it.”

The cook straightened up, peering into the dark, and Frank rode off into the night. Beach pulled off in the opposite direction. Suddenly he picked the sound of a horse behind him and, palming up his gun, he turned and peered through the coming dawn.

A voice said harshly, “Put it away!”

It was Red. In a moment he pulled alongside Beach and said grimly, “That was nice shootin'. He's dead.”

Beach's heart sank. “I—I had to, Red,” he stammered. “I got caught in the millin' and I was bein' carried over close to him and he was shootin' at me.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why was he shootin' at you?”

“He saw me stampedin' the herd,” Beach said.

“You're a liar,” Red said bluntly. “I heard you call out to me.”

After that neither of them spoke. They rode on south in the dawn, and they could hear the distant shots of the trail drivers trying to turn the stampeded herd and get them to milling. At the creek, well away from the river, they dismounted. Red had scarcely had time to build a cigarette before Frank's high shape loomed up out of the gray dawn.

Frank said wearily, “That was a sure-enough, center-fire stampede. Couldn't even have bought one as good.”

Red said meagerly, “Beach cut down on a night herder. Killed him.”

Frank was dismounted now. He stood utterly still, and then he said quietly, “What?”

Red said, “I took the trouble to make sure.”

Frank looked over at Beach, who was standing by the creek. “I thought I told you to run, not fight,” he said ominously.

“I couldn't help it!” Beach cried. “He was shootin' at me, Frank! I couldn't let him cut me to doll rags!”

Frank didn't speak for a long moment, then he said in a thick voice, “You damm sheepherder's pup! So you're tryin' to hang me too!”

“I couldn't help it!” Beach cried.

“Get out of here before I cut down on you myself!” Frank raged.

Beach started for his horse. Frank, cursing savagely, swung back into his saddle and crossed the creek and struck out south alone.

Beach paused and watched him, his small eyes wicked. “Nobody's goin' to call me a sheepherder's pup,” he said thinly. “He better take that back.”

Red said bluntly, “Keep out of his way until he cools off.”

Beach turned hot eyes on him. “Why'd you tell on me?”

Red said dryly, “I'm tryin' to learn you somethin', kid. You're old enough to take the medicine you make for yourself. You ain't goin' to run away from a damn thing you ever do, not ever. You better start facin' it right here.”

“He'd never have found out if you hadn't told,” Beach said angrily.

“I didn't expect you'd have brains enough to see what I meant,” Red said, an edge to his voice. “Get on your horse and ride with me. And keep out of Frank's way.”

Chapter XI

Corb hung around fort reno the morning after the fire just long enough to hear the talk. It wasn't hard to pick up. Nobody knew about last night's fire yet, but a half-dozen men in the sutler's bar grinned slyly at him. The bartender, when he called for a beer, served him with the remark, “I hear Milabel's havin' a little trouble with his freightin' outfit.”

“Who told you?”

“A Circle R rider was in here yesterday afternoon breathin' plenty of fire against your outfit, Corb.”

“That so? Where'd it happen?”

“Above the Comanche ford,” the bartender said and grinned. He admired a man who could keep his business to himself and admit nothing, as Corb was doing.

Corb finished his beer and went out to get his horse at the tie rail. So this was what Milabel meant last night at the burning shack when he spoke about wrecking his wagons.

Corb rode out of Reno alone, headed for Comanche ford. He reached it about noon and, finding nothing, headed upstream. Presently, at the bend in the river, he saw the wreckage of the two wagons blocking the main channel. He dismounted at the cold campfire and, with only curiosity to prod him, read the story left by the tracks. They were plain enough, from the wagon tracks that missed the cut in the steep bank into the river to the telltale ends of severed rough-block rope.

Corb hunkered down on his heels and tried to reconstruct the scene. It had been done at night and it had been done stealthily, for there were only a couple of empty shell cases here that spoke of little shooting. The camp hadn't been aroused, or there would have been some fighting. And a big bunch of men would have roused the camp. That meant that there were only two or three at most who had done it. And they had made it look as if Corb had done it, else why had Milabel retaliated with the burning of the shack?

Corb pulled at his lower lip, then scratched his ragged roan mustache, his black eyes veiled and scheming. He had enemies in this country, but they were pretty well cowed. And then he thought of Frank Christian, because that was one man he did not have cowed. Slowly he came to his feet, his mind shuttling to Red Shibe. Two of them, both wild as hell and tough as leather. Christian was out of jail, loose, and Corb was squatting on his place. Who else would have done it?

Thoughtfully, using those two as possibilities, Corb again reconstructed the scene of the wagon wrecking. It fitted neatly, and he turned back to his horse.

He mounted and turned toward the burned shack, casting about in his mind for a motive. Abruptly he pulled up and gazed off across the prairie, all the tag ends of his questioning suddenly fitting together like the tumblers of a lock.

Motive? Hell, Christian's motive could be read plain enough in the ashes of that shack. Too small to fight two big outfits, Christian's idea was to get them fighting between themselves.

And no sooner had Corb realized it than he changed directions and headed straight for the Circle R. He might get shot, but that was a chance he had to run if he was to see and talk to Milabel.

He rode into the Circle R in late afternoon, rode straight up to the blacksmith shop where a puncher was hammering away on a shoe.

Corb's voice surprised him. “Where's Milabel?”

The puncher wheeled and saw Corb sitting loosely in the saddle, his hands folded on the horn. The puncher looked twice, closely, and then he said, “Ain't you Corb?”

“That's right.”

The puncher sized up his chances and then went for his gun. Corb didn't move, only stared calmly into the barrel of the rider's unlimbered Colt.

“You'll see Milabel soon enough,” the rider said. “Climb out of that saddle and walk toward the house.”

Corb did. When he was under the cottonwood Milabel stepped out of the office door, a look of amazement on his bruised face.

Corb said crisply, “I came over to talk to you. If you're wise you'll listen. Send that puncher away from here.”

The two enemies, one a big and bluff man, the other a slouched, untidy figure who looked as mild as a country storekeeper, regarded each other levelly, shrewdly. It was one of the few good close looks at each other they had ever had. Milabel's eyes reflected a momentary and grudging admiration, and then, not to be outdone in indifference to danger, he said to the rider, “Drag it.”

The puncher walked away, and Corb said, “Where can we talk?”

Milabel gestured to the office. Corb went in first. There was a worn leather chair in front of a sagging sofa which he took. Milabel lowered himself into his swivel chair, eying Corb warily.

“What's the matter?” Milabel demanded suddenly. “Gettin' a bellyful of this fightin'?”

“You nor all your crew couldn't give me a bellyful,” Corb murmured. “It's just that I don't like to waste my men.”

Milabel's face flushed a little. “Come to buy me off?”

“I come to give you some cold facts,” Corb said. “Milabel, why'd you burn me out last night?”

Milabel's eyes narrowed. “You know damn well why I burned you out. I'll burn out your other place the next time you raid one of my wagons.”

“But I never raided your wagons,” Corb said flatly. “That's what's funny.”

Milabel stared shrewdly at him. “Takin water?” he jeered.

“I ain't scared of you,” Corb said. “Hell's bells, we've scrapped back and forth for a couple of years now. You ought to know I won't run, Milabel. If I saw a chance to down your outfit for good and all I'd do it this minute. You'd do it to me too. But I reckon we both decided the same thing, decided it a long time ago. We both figured it was too expensive in men and money to war it out.”

Milabel nodded. “That's the way I figured it, until you raided them wagons.”

“But I didn't raid the wagons,” Corb said. “That's what I'm tryin' to tell you. I beat you to Christian's place after you framed him with that whisky peddlin'. It was luck, pure luck, because he'd cleaned up on my boys the night before, and I was after his hide. Your frame-up moved him off, and I saw it empty and moved in before you did.” He paused. “Hell, I was wonderin' if I could hold the place against you. Does it look reasonable that I'd get you more on the prod by wreckin' your wagons?”

“No, it don't,” Milabel conceded. “Still, you did.”

“You're wrong,” Corb said bluntly. “I didn't. Somebody else did. And I'll tell you why, Milabel. They figured you'd be mad enough to fight. You were. You burned my place. They figured I'd be mad then, mad enough to turn around and start a grass fire on your range or have the Indians raid one of your herds.”

“They?” Milabel said skeptically. “Who's they?”

“Figure it out for yourself,” Corb said. “Just supposin' you and me started fightin'. You'd get half your crew killed off, and the other half would leave. Your cattle would be choused around until they was as gaunt as crows. Your range would be burned and your line camps wrecked. Pretty soon the company would decide that they were losin' more money than they were makin', and they'd just pull stakes, wouldn't they?”

Milabel didn't say anything, and Corb went on. “Take me. If you started fightin' me, the Indians would start fightin' you. Pretty soon the army would decide that I was raisin' a little too much hell in the Nations and they'd kick me out. That right?”

Milabel nodded slowly.

“All right,” Corb said. “If we was both moved out of here, who'd profit?”

Milabel scowled, alert now. “Lots of ranchers.”

“Which ones?” Corb said. “Just figure the one outfit that's got it in for us both, and you'll have it.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.

“That's Frank Christian, I reckon,” Milabel said slowly.

Corb only nodded, watching him. There was a sudden pounding on the door, and Milabel bawled, “What is it?”

“Can you step out a minute, Chet?” someone asked.

Milabel went out the door, closing it behind him. Corb tried to listen but he could only catch a murmur of voices. Then Milabel started to curse softly, and there were more questions, more answers. Finally two men, one the puncher who was shoeing his horse and another rider, moved past the window. Corb saw this second rider take the reins of a lathered horse and walk toward the corrals.

In a moment Milabel came into the room and walked to his chair, not even looking at Corb. His face was ugly, and a half-smoked cigarette hung from his lips. He looked keenly at Corb and then sank into the chair. He stared at the floor, looking at Corb now and then, and finally his mind seemed to be made up.

He said to Corb, “A herd of three-year-olds Shafer was drivin' to Caldwell was stampeded up on the north fork last night. About two hundred of them bogged down in quicksand, and there's still three hundred missin'. The rest each run about twenty pounds of tallow off in the stampede.”

Corb only smiled faintly under his roan mustache.

“Three men done it,” Milabel went on, watching Corb. “They told the cook that if I wanted whisky again I better buy it.” He paused. “That's the same thing they called that night when they wrecked the wagons.” At Corb's frown of puzzlement Milabel went on. “We raided a cache of yours for whisky to frame Christian.”