West Of Dodge (Ss) (1996) (18 page)

"I'm finishing out the week." He had expected to do just that, but Reilly let them all go without saying aye, yes, or no. "The Dutchman said he would meet me here."

Naming the Dutchman--that was a good thing, too.

Dutch Spooner was a tough man, just about the toughest on the Seventy-Seven, and no nonsense about him. Beaure had no idea that the Dutchman would side him against anyone, but they had worked together.

"All right," Naley said, "we'll wait for him. I think you're lying."

Nora watched him cautiously from across the room. Obviously, she was thinking about his warning in town and was wondering just what he was up to. That was a question to which Beaure wished he had a better answer.

"Say," he asked innocently, "what are you all doing here, and what was that yelling about?" He casually unbuttoned his jacket as he moved toward the fire, wanting his hands warm. Only Naley outguessed him and sidestepped suddenly, bringing the barrel of his six-shooter down on Beaure's head. He saw it coming and tried to duck, catching a glancing blow that dropped him to his knees. Before he knew what was happening, Naley put a foot between his shoulders and held him down while he slid his six-shooter out of its holster.

"That was the meanest thing I ever saw!" Nora Rand's face was white with anger. "You--you dirty coward!"

"Shut up," Hugo Naley said impatiently. "Shut up, Nora, I've got thinking to do."

Beaure had slumped down by the fire, and feeling the warmth soaking the chill from him, he remained there. He needed to get the stiffness of cold out of his muscles, and he needed time to think. So far he had acted the blundering fool. Through the throbbing pain in his skull, that fact stood out with pitiless clarity.

"He's going to kill us," Nora whispered. "He wants to inherit this ranch from my grandfather, and you're in it, too."

She was right, and the worst of it was there just wasn't anything anybody could do about it. Nobody knew the girl was here, nobody knew Beaure was. He had been paid off and had told everybody he was leaving, so nobody would be looking for either the girl or himself, and they could drop from sight and nobody the wiser.

Out of the slit of his eyes he looked up at Hugo Naley and was awed by the man's size. His face might have been carved from oak.

Naley was trying to think it out. Beaure knew that Naley placed little faith in the lie about the Dutchman, but it was a likely story because all the range knew the Seventy-Seven had lost cattle by their bunching up in narrow draws which filled up with many feet of snow. There was a better chance for them in the wider valleys and canyons where the snow drifted less deep.

The Dutchman was a notoriously difficult, taciturn man. Hard-headed, opinionated, and obstinately honest, he was a man without humor and without fear. Moreover; it had been rumored that the Dutchman did not like Hugo Naley.

Beaure wished there was something he could do. Naley was so all-fired big and mean--and he had both guns.

The wind moaned under the eaves, and Beaure thought of that icy grave in the lean-to. Naley could bury them together, fill in that grave, and scatter straw over it, and come spring nobody would know the difference. Nobody ever went into that old lean-to, anyway.

The fire was warming him. Beaure thought of that. They were fairly trapped, but so was Naley. No man would be fool enough to try to cut across country in weather like this, and if he stopped by any of the ranches they would be curious as to why he was out. No passersby were likely in this weather, but somehow Naley had to be rid of them both.

"Suppose you do get rid of me?" Nora asked. "What about Len Mason?"

Naley shot her a glance out of his ice-blue eyes, but he did not comment. Beaure had a feeling that Naley had his own reasons for not worrying about Mason.

That livery stable man ... He wouldn't worry about his horse for a day or two, and if the horse showed up without a rider, if Naley simply tied the stirrups up and let it loose, the hostler might curse Beaure out for leaving the horse find his way back alone, but he probably wouldn't suspect any foul play.

Beaure sat up. "I want to see you try that on the Dutchman," he said. "I just want to see you try."

Naley walked to the window and peered out into the blinding snowstorm. Beaure looked at the broad back and studied the idea of jumping him, but realized the floor would creak and Naley would turn and let him have it.

Yet Naley was worried. Was it the storm? Or was he buying that story about the Dutchman?

"You'd better call this off, Naley. You kill us and you'll -hang. I saw you and the girl in town today, and others did too."

Naley ignored him, walking restlessly from window to window. Obviously he thought little of any attempt Beaure might make against him. It was the storm that worried him, for the wind was increasing. The cold was also increasing.

Beaure thought about the fuel situation and understood why Naley was worried. If the storm lasted three days, they would be burning the house itself. There were some deadfalls at the edge of the woods, but finding and cutting them up in this weather would be impossible, even if there was an ax available.

Beaure studied the situation and liked it none at all. Of course, Naley could break up the old stable out there. Not that there was much wood, except in the lean-to.

He leaned over and tossed a couple of pieces of broken board on the fire.

"Looks like the Dutchman should be here," Beaure commented thoughtfully. "This is the only shelter anywhere around."

Naley turned angrily. "Shut your mouth!" He laid a hand on his gun. For an instant Beaure felt a cold that was not from the winter storm. Naley was on a hair trigger in that instant, and prepared to kill him.

Nora got up.

The movement distracted Naley and he glanced at her, then swung his eyes quickly back to Beaure, who had remained where he was.

"It's going to be a cold night," Beaure said. "We'd all better be thinking about that."

It was at least ten degrees below zero. He thought of the horse out there in the stable. It would be warmer than they were, for it was a tight, well-built old building of adobe, and heavily thatched. Now it was covered with snow and snow had drifted against the walls. The horse would be warm enough.

The big old house was too high in the ceiling, and the rooms were big and hard to heat.

The noise was faint . . . but they all heard it. A faint call in the momentary lull of the wind.

Naley swore and turned swiftly to the window, peering out into the storm. When he turned from the window, he said, "Somebody's out there. If it's that damn Dutchman, I'll--!"

Beaure felt a sudden panic. Who could it be? Whoever it was would walk in out of the cold right into Naley's gun, and Beaure knew suddenly that Naley was through debating; he was primed and ready. A passerby stopping in for shelter might have been the salvation that they were hoping for--after all, how many people did Naley think he was going to kill?--but now Beaure had set him up to think that the toughest hombre in the county was about to come through the door. Whoever it was, really, was about to be shot down without ceremony.

Unwittingly, Beaure had put the newcomer in a trap. Expecting only shelter, he would walk right into a bullet.

Naley was facing the door and waiting.

Beaure felt sick. He should have known that his argument that the Dutchman would work Smoky Draw was a good one. He was just the man who would be given the job; he was that dependable. He glanced at Nora and she was looking at him. He turned his eyes back to Naley. He was going to have to try. He might get killed, but it was the only chance for all of them.

Naley moved a step toward the door, squaring himself a little for it. Suddenly there was a stamping on the porch outside, as somebody knocked the snow from his boots.

Naley eared back the gun hammer, and the click was loud in the room. At the same instant, the knob started to turn and Beaure threw himself at Naley.

The big man turned like a cat, firing as he turned. The hammer was back and the slightest pressure fired the gun-- an instant before it was lined up on Beaure Hatch. And then Beaure hit him.
.

He hit him in a long dive, his hands grabbing for a hold. Naley clubbed with the gun, and fell back, off balance. Before he could bring the gun down in a line with Beaure, the young cowpuncher jumped, grasping the wrist with both hands and smashing it hard against the wall.

The gun fell, and both men got up. Naley circled toward the gun and Beaure went into him, taking a smashing blow over the eye. Surprisingly, the blow did not hurt as much as he expected. Beaure swung his own fist and caught Naley at the angle of the jaw. The big man bobbed his head, and Beaure spread his legs wide and cut loose with two roundhouse swings.

Naley staggered, and then Beaure closed in, taking another punch but landing both fists.

"All right, Beaure. Let him alone."

It was Abram Tebbets, and he was holding a six-shooter on Hugo Naley.

Beaure backed off, breathing hard and sucking a bloody knuckle.

Tebbets stepped forward and scooped Naley's gun from the floor.

"He's got my gun under his coat," Beaure said. Tebbets stepped in, whipped open the coat with his left hand, and took the gun. He was deft, sure, capable.

"You sure handle that gun like you know how," Beaure said. Abram Tebbets glanced at him. "I studied law while I was marshal of a cow town," he said, "and I was six years in the Army, fighting Indians."

Beaure walked over to Nora. "Are you all right?"
*

"I'm sorry I didn't listen to you." She put her hand on his sleeve. "Will you forgive me for all the trouble I've caused?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'm just glad this all worked out. I was afraid my talking about the Dutchman nearly got Mr. Tebbets killed," Beaure said. "I was just a-yarning, hoping to worry him."

"You did all right," Nora said.

"You know, it's funny you mentioned him," Tebbets commented. "He broke a leg early this morning and will be laid up for the winter. The Seventy-Seven foreman was in town looking for you. If you want it, you have a job."

Beaure knelt and added fuel to the fire. It looked like they were going to have to tear down that lean-to, after all.

"I'll stay/' he said, glancing around at Nora. "Seems like I'm just getting acquainted."

Beaure felt gingerly of his face, where it was puffed from a blow. "Thing that surprises me," he commented, "Naley didn't punch near so hard as that mule skinner up in Gillette."

*

Marshal of Canyon Gap
.

He rode down from the hills in the morning, a tall, rawboned young man with the quiet confidence of one given to hard work and responsibility. He had a shock of rusty brown hair, gray eyes, and a way of moving in which there was no lost motion.

Sitting in the sunlight on the main street of Canyon Gap, I was sorry to see him come. He was a man who looked like he'd been long on the road. He also looked like trouble aplenty, and I was a man who didn't like trouble at all.

He rode into town on a rawboned buckskin and dismounted at Bacon's hitch rail. All the time he was tying that horse, he was looking up and down the street while seeming to be almighty busy with that knot.

By the time he had his horse tied he knew the location of every man on the street, and every window. I'd not seen Jim Melette before, but he was no tenderfoot, no pilgrim. A man isn't marshal of a cow town for ten years without sizing up the men who come to town, and learning to estimate their capacity for trouble.

He stepped up on the boardwalk, a big man in fringed shotgun chaps and a blue wool shirt, wearing a black flat-brimmed hat. For a moment, his eyes caught me with full attention, and then he turned his back on me and went into the store.

That store didn't worry me so much. What I was thinking about was the saloon. Brad Nolan was over there with Pete Jackson and Led Murry.

Brad was a headstrong, troublemaking man who had a way of bulling about that showed he figured he made mighty big tracks. Trouble was, he'd never done anything to entitle him to that attitude, and he was aching for a chance. Brad was feeling his importance, and for four or five years I'd been watching him put on muscle and arrogance until I knew trouble couldn't be avoided.

Lately he had been swaggering around and I knew he was wondering how far he'd get trying me on, but he'd seen me shoot holes through too many aces and no man wants to buck that kind of shooting.

Pete Jackson was worse because he was a talker. He never knew when to keep his mouth shut, and never considered the results of his loose talk, and such a man can cause more trouble than three Memphis lawyers.

Led Murry was an unknown quantity. He was new in town, and I hadn't made up my mind what to think about Led . . . there was something that happened a short while back that had me wondering if he wasn't the worst of the lot, but I wasn't sure. I just knew he never said much and he had crazy eyes, and that worried me.

Brad Nolan seemed the one inclined to start trouble, but he had seen me toss a playing card in the air, draw, and put a hole in it dead center before it hit the ground. It kept him and a lot of others from starting anything.