The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 1 (52 page)

The words made no sense. Obviously he was delirious, and she thought no more of what he had said. An hour later, with the wounds bathed and bandaged from some supplies she carried in her saddlebags, she stood facing Logan.

“He can't be moved, Pierce.” Her voice was worried. “I'm going to stay here with him. Why don't you ride for Doc? That horse of yours will get to him faster than anyone else.”

“Leave me with him,” Logan suggested. “Your mare is fast, and you'd be safer in town than here.”

She hesitated. “No, I'll stay. Ever since this started I've been carrying a few things with me. If he should need help, I could give it to him. I'll be all right.”

“Well …” He hesitated. She was here, alone. Why not now? In a few days …? Then he told himself not to be a fool. He wanted the Lazy K. He could get a clearer title by marriage, and besides, she would be an asset. There was plenty of time. He told himself that coolly, while he avoided her glance. She was the loveliest girl he had ever seen. Only one had been nearly so beautiful.

“All right, I'll go. Be careful,” he advised, “and stay out of sight.” This would prevent him from going on to Rawhide, but that could wait. He would appear to be doing more good this way. Finerty would remember it, and Brewster, if he lived. Had Brewster seen him lift that pistol? He doubted it. Mounting, he waved good-bye and started the bay horse at a fast canter.

Remy looked after him, wondering about him again as she often had in these last few days. He sat his horse splendidly. He was a man a woman could be proud of. But …

She walked back to the barn and gathered more sacks to make Brewster more comfortable. Time and again she walked to the door, but it would be hours before Logan could return.

 

Pierce Logan was in no hurry. He was going for Finerty, but he was hoping that Brewster would die before the doctor could reach him to help. Hurrying would only increase the chances for Brewster to live. Still, if he did live he would be ill for a long time, and by that time the whole trouble would be settled, one way or another.

Now that he was away from her, he was glad he had not molested Remy Kastelle. There was something about being alone with a woman like that that always fired him with some strange, burning desire. Yet, he could wait. All this, and her, would soon be his. Only three obstacles remained. Texas Dowd, the plan against Finn Mahone, and Byrn Sonntag.

The Rawhide gunman was his man, but he was too powerful a force for Logan to leave in the field. Sonntag had started changing Logan's policy when the Rawhide boys began their outright theft. Sonntag controlled the men doing the rustling. So Logan had no choice but to go along with it or be sidelined. As soon as the events in the Laird Valley came to a head, Logan and Sonntag were going to have to find out who was boss. Yet it was a simple choice … only one would be alive.

 

North of him the clans were gathering in Rawhide. Byrn Sonntag had been sitting at a table waiting for them. Montana Kerr came in, dusty from his long ride. Briefly, he reported. Sonntag fingered his glass. Dan Taggart was dead. That was good, for the man had fight in him. Bovetas was dead. That was unimportant, but it was another gun eliminated. Brewster was dead, or so the report came in. The Brewster and McInnis operations were out of the fight, and the bulk of their cattle were on the move. There remained only the Lazy K.

Logan was soft on hitting the Kastelle ranch. He had some plan of his own, for he had always told Sonntag to go easy. The reason he gave was the watchfulness of Texas Dowd, but Sonntag suspected it had more to do with the girl. The thought of Dowd irritated Sonntag. The man was good with a gun. But how good?

He knew Dowd slightly. Finn Mahone was still only a name to him, once or twice their trails had crossed, but always at a distance.

Ike Hibby, Ringer Cobb, Banty Hull, and the rest of them had ridden in from the range. The war was on, and the Rawhide riders had struck fast and hard.

He was not worried about Laird. Its citizens would have little effect outside the town. There would be resistance, but a resistance of spirit rather than physical power. Byrn Sonntag had nothing but contempt for resistance of the spirit. Such resistance is of avail only so long as one's enemy is aware of things of the spirit, and aware of public opinion. Sonntag knew that Logan wanted to keep the war bottled up in Laird Valley. Sonntag could see the advantage in that. Yet Pierce Logan disturbed him. Why, he couldn't say.

Logan, he was well aware, was in the clear. At no point was Logan obviously involved. His skirts were clean, and there was nothing for him to worry about if the plan failed. Sometimes Sonntag wondered if he needed Logan. Yet, he had to admit, he was better heeled now than any time in his life, fear of reprisals was almost nonexistent, and it looked like his men were riding to complete dominance of the valley.

 

Texas Dowd, sided by Rifenbark, made a wide sweep of the Lazy K range. Mile by mile, bitterness welled up within him. The range had been swept of cattle. Back in the brakes there would be some, of course, but all those in sight had been driven off. Open war had been declared, and the attack was all to the advantage of the enemy.

Distant smoke warned him of fire at Brewster's, so the two rode on. When still some distance away, he recognized Remy's mare and put his horse to a gallop.

Remy ran from the barn to greet him. “It was the Rawhide bunch! If Logan and I hadn't got here—!”

Dowd's interruption was quick. “Logan here? Who got here first, you or him?”

“Why, he did … why?”

Dowd's face was expressionless. “Just wondering. This is a long ways from P Slash L range, and a long way from Laird.”

“Surely you don't suspect Pierce?” Remy was incredulous.

“I suspect everybody!” Dowd replied shortly. “Hell's broke loose! Taggart's been murdered, an' so's Bovetas!”

Remy's face went white. Dan Taggart she knew well, and Bovie … why, he was one of their own boys! Tex went on to tell her about the missing cattle.

While Rif kept watch, Dowd swung down and went inside. Van Brewster was lying on the sacks, breathing hoarsely. His face was wet with sweat and he looked bad. Texas Dowd was familiar with the look of wounded men, and he wouldn't have given a plugged peso for the cattleman's chances.

Without saying anything further to Remy he walked outside. A study of the earth, where it wasn't packed too hard by sun and rain, showed him it was the same lot from Rawhide. The fact that Rawhide was not many miles away made him no happier. They were in no position to defend themselves if attacked. The barn was a flimsy structure, and outnumbered as they might be, there would be almost no chance for them.

That the Kastelle ranch was in the hands of few men was bad. Dowd was a practical fighting man, and he knew such a division of forces was often fatal. Now, when they lacked so much in strength and were encumbered by a dying man, it was infinitely worse. He made his decision quickly.

“Remy,” he said, “get on your horse, and you and Rif head for the ranch. I'll stay with Brewster. There's nothing more you or anybody can do until the doctor comes.”

Remy shook her head. “No, we'll stay. What if they come back?”

Dowd's face was like ice. “You'll do as I say, Remy. Never since you was a little girl have I given you an order. I'm givin' you one now! Your father's probably worried to death by now. He's alone with just the hands at the ranch, and that's the next place they'll hit. They've wrecked McInnis and Brewster. Believe me, if they tackle the ranch he'll need all the help he can get. You two start back, and don't loaf on the way.”

An instant longer she hesitated, but there was a cold logic in what Dowd said. The ranch must not be lost, and their fighting power must be kept intact. “All right, I'll go.”

She walked out and swung into the saddle. Rifenbark hesitated, rubbing his grizzled jaw. “Gosh, Tex, I—”

“Get along,” Dowd said. “I'll be all right.”

When they had ridden away he stood there in front of the barn. Brewster's house was a heap of charred ruins, still smoking. The barn was a crude building of logs, but most of them were mere poles. It was nothing for defense. Nor was there a good spot around. If he was tackled here … well, he would have a damned slim chance. And Brewster could not be moved.

He hunted around until he found Brewster's rifle; luckily, it was in the scabbard on his saddle. With it was an ammunition belt. He brought it back into the barn, and then got some sacks and filled them with sand. These he piled against the wall. There were some grain-filled sacks, and he added them.

Twilight came, and then night. He sat back against the sacks and listened to the hoarse breathing of the wounded man. Outside, little stars of red twinkled and sparked among the black of the dying fire.

Pierce Logan had been here. Why? The thought got into his mind and stuck there. This part of the range held nothing for Logan. He had made no practice of visiting surrounding ranches. There was no reason for his being here, and the thought nettled Dowd. He liked to have a reason for things. He stared into the night, and then let his eyes shift to the ruins of the house.

At that moment he heard the sound of horses' hooves. He sat still, listening.

They were drawing nearer, coming from the direction of Rawhide, and there were a good-sized bunch of them. Texas Dowd got to his feet and walked to the door of the barn. He loosened his six-guns in their holsters and picked up a rifle. His gray eyes worked at the night, striving to see them when they first appeared.

They were talking. He distinguished a voice as the hard, nasal twang of Frank Salter. “You git that Brewster? Was he dead, Al?”

“You was here. Why didn't you look?” Alcorn demanded querulously. “Of course I killed him!”

Texas Dowd had no illusions, nor any compunctions when it came to fighting outlaws and killers. He lifted his rifle, leveled at the voice of Alcorn, and fired.

As though a bolt of lightning had struck among them, riders scattered in every direction, and several of them fired. Dowd saw the flame stab the night, but he was watching his target. Alcorn slid from his horse and fell loosely, heavily into the dust and lay still.

Tex dropped to the ground and lay quiet, listening to the shouting and swearing among the Rawhiders. Then several shots rang out and Dowd heard a bullet strike the log wall. He lay quiet, ignoring it. He had no intention of wasting ammunition on the night air.

He could hear their argument, for their voices carried in the clear, still air. “Like hell Brewster's dead! He got Al!”

“That wasn't him,” Montana said. “Brewster might not of been dead, but he was far gone when I last seen him! Somebody else has moved in!”

The voices seemed to be centering around one group of trees, so Dowd lifted his rifle and fired four times, rapid fire. Curses rang out, then silence. He chuckled to himself. “That will make them more careful!” he said.

Texas Dowd settled down behind the sandbags. It was lighter out there, and he could see any movement if an attempt was made to cross the ranch yard. Beside him Brewster stirred, and when Dowd looked down he saw the man's face was gray and his breathing more labored. Van Brewster was going to die.

Dowd whispered to him, “Who shot you, Van?”

He was repeating the question a third time when Brewster's lips stirred. After a moment, the words came. “Bant … y Hull, Alcorn … an' them.”

“I got Alcorn,” Dowd told him. “I'll get Hull for you, too.”

Brewster's eyes fought their way open and he caught at Dowd's shirtfront. “Watch … Logan. He start … ed to shoot me.”

Pierce Logan? Dowd's mind accepted the thought and turned it over. Logan, the innocent bystander, the man on the sidelines. Why not him?

 

Over in the dark brush, Montana Kerr was growing irritable. “Let's rush the place! Let's dig him out of there, whoever he is!”

“Wait!” Hull suggested. “I have a better plan. We'll try fire!”

CHAPTER 7

It was Pierce Logan himself, coming for Doc Finerty, who brought the first word of the range war to Laird. As Doc threw a few necessary articles into his saddlebags, Logan gave a brief account of what he wanted them to know. Brewster was badly wounded, perhaps dead, and his ranch house had been burned.

The second bit of news came from Nick James. He was almost at the opposite side of the Lazy K range, heading for the Notch, when he heard the shots fired by the rustlers at Bovetas and Rifenbark. Leaving his packhorse, he turned back, riding warily. So it was that he arrived at the Lazy K just in time to meet Remy as she returned from Brewster's.

Nick James headed for Laird on a fresh horse. His news, added to that brought by Logan, had the town on its ear. The cattle had been driven off the Lazy K and Brewster's spread in one sweep. Bovetas was dead. Taggart was dead. Brewster was wounded. Rifenbark had recognized the Rawhide crowd.

While the streets filled with talking, excited men, Finn Mahone rolled off the bed in the back of Ma Boyle's and pulled on his boots. There were voices in the hall and a sudden pounding on his door. Springing to his feet, gun in hand, he opened it wide. Lettie Mason was standing there.

“Finn!” she cried. “Come quickly! I've just found Otis and he's badly wounded. He's been lying out in the brush where he was left for dead. He wants to see you.”

On the way to her place, Lettie told him the news. Finn's mind leaped over the gaps and saw the situation just as it was. Dowd had stayed at Brewster's with the dying man, so he would be there alone. A dangerous position if the rustlers came back. Finn was prepared to find Texas and explain himself. If his plan worked … At the thought of riding beside his old comrade again, his heart gave a leap.

Garfield Otis, his face gray and ghastly with the proximity of death, was fully conscious when they came in. A messenger from Lettie had caught Finerty as he was leaving town. Logan had not been with him, for Pierce had no intention of returning to Brewster's. If Finerty was killed, it would be one more out of the way.