The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 1 (48 page)

“Finn Mahone!” Remy stared at Dowd. “Then he saved your life, Tex!”

“Yeah.” Tex stared at the tracks of the big horse. “That's the third time!”

“Tex,” Remy said quickly, “what's between you and Mahone?”

Texas Dowd raised his eyes and looked at her. “He murdered my sister,” he said coldly.

CHAPTER 5

Dan Taggart loped his sorrel pony toward the McInnis ranch. At the time Mexie Roberts was lying in wait for his shot at Dowd, Taggart had been inspecting cattle far to the south.

Taggart was a man of nearly forty who looked ten years older. Rarely clean shaven, he was grim, hard, and loyal. He was one of those riders who were the backbone of the cattle business. When he rode, he rode, in the parlance of the cattle country, “for the brand.” In other words, his loyalty was not a thing to be taken lightly.

He was a man without imagination. Hardworking, ready to fight if need be, never hesitating at long hours or miserable conditions. Abe McInnis, who knew a good man when he saw one, had made Taggart foreman. It was the first position of responsibility Dan Taggart had ever held. He took it seriously, and he did more work than any two of his cowhands.

That day he had seen a heifer with a fresh brand. He got a loop on her, and inspected the brand. It was P Slash L, the Logan brand. There was nothing surprising about it, as the cattle of the two ranches grazed the same land in this area, and had done so without question for some time.

Nick James, who had formerly ridden for McInnis, saw Taggart pull down the heifer and rode over. He grinned at the older man. “Figger we're rustlin', Dan?”

“Nope.” Taggart released the heifer and got up. “Just havin' a look. That Kastelle girl said somethin' the other day. Bothers me some.”

“What was that?” James asked. He rolled a smoke and sat his horse, waiting.

Taggart rolled his quid and spat. “Said somethin' about this here Mahone feller sayin' if we was to hunt rustlers we should do it with a pen an' ink.”

Nick looked at Taggart quickly, his eyes shrewd. “Yeah,” he said, carefully, “not a bad idea. You got that Spur brand, Dan. Feller could make that over into a lot of things.”

“Uh-huh,” Taggart agreed. He picked up a bit of dead mesquite root. “Like an IH connected?”

Nick James's face was expressionless. He lighted his smoke. “Yeah,” he said again, “you can do purty well with a Lazy K, too.”

Taggart looked up. “Nick, I wouldn't say this to many people, but I reckon I got stampeded into doin' somethin' foolish the other night. First time I ever went to one of them Cattleman's meetin's, though.” He looked up again. “I voted for Sonntag.”

“Heard about it,” Nick said gravely. “You seen
The Branding Iron
?”

“No, why?” Taggart looked up at Nick.

The P Slash L cowhand dug into his saddlebag. “Take a look then.”

SONNTAG CHOSEN FOR RANGE INVESTIGATION

By a vote of six to four, the Cattleman's Association voted to appoint Byrn Sonntag as range detective to investigate and deal with rustling activities. Abraham McInnis, popular cattleman of the Spur Ranch, was unable to be present. There has been considerable wonder about how the vote would have gone had McInnis not been confined to his bed due to the mysterious shooting in the canyon below Rimrock. McInnis, seriously wounded in a yet unexplained shooting, is believed by many of his friends to be opposed to any such action as the hiring of a notorious gunman.

Dan Taggart, foreman of the Spur, voted for Sonntag in McInnis's place. Had he voted against Sonntag the question would have been dropped for the time being.

“Looks kind of bad,” Taggart admitted. “I wished that girl had spoke up before I voted. Minute she said that, I began seein' pictures in my head of all them brands.”

“Yeah,” Nick agreed. “Know how you feel.”

“Well,” Taggart said. “P Slash L's in the clear on that, even if Logan did vote for Sonntag. No brand in the valley can be made into a P Slash L.”

“That's right.” Nick James glanced off across the prairie. “It's too right.”

Taggart looked up, scowling. “Huh? What did you say?”

“Dan,” Nick said, “we lost some cows about a month ago. Maybe twenty head. I'd been workin' back in Sage Canyon up until the day before, then Pierce told me to start breakin' a couple of broncs we got.”

“What about it?”

“Those broncs could have been broke anytime, Dan.”

Dan Taggart got into the saddle and watched Nick James riding away. The more he thought about it, the surer he was that his vote had been a bad thing. He wished that McInnis was conscious so he could talk to him. He was worried, and had no idea what course was best.

Clouds were bunching up over the Highbinders to the north. He dug his slicker out of his saddlebags and rode on with it lying conveniently across the saddle in front of him.

 

It was already pouring rain when Finn Mahone rode into Laird. On a hunch, he had returned to Crystal Valley and thrown a hackamore on the old steel-dust gelding and brought it with him down into town. If push came to shove in the trouble with Texas Dowd the steel-dust might, just might, get him a fair hearing. In the past his pride had kept him from asking for understanding from the man who once had been his friend. But the situation was now different. He had just saved Dowd's life, and they were both older and wiser. Heavy clouds loomed over the town and rain was falling in sheets. Not knowing what sort of reception he could expect, he avoided the livery stable and rode down a back street until he came to Doc Finerty's. He led the stallion and gelding inside the doctor's barn, rubbed them dry, and got feed from the bin.

Splashing through the gathering pools of rain, he went to the back door of Lettie's place. Turning the knob, it gave under his hand and he stepped within, loosening the buttons on his slicker to have his guns available. He was standing there, dripping water in the light that reflected from over the stairway, when Lettie came into the hall.

“Finn!” she exclaimed. “Oh, it's good to see you.”

She was a small woman, beautifully shaped, and Finn was always surprised to find her in such a business. She wore beautiful but conservative clothing, and always looked smart and attractive. He knew enough of her story to admire her for her determination and her fine independence of spirit. Nor could he blame her for choosing this business, for when left a widow there had been only the choice between running a gambling house or slowly falling into a pauper's life. She had not hesitated to make her decision, heedless of her reputation.

One of those unaccountable movements that swept the tide of drifting mankind into some of the farthest and most unusual backwaters had brought her to Laird.

“It's good to see you again, too, Lettie.” He nodded toward the parlor. “Who's in?”

“Nobody, right now. I guess the rain's keeping them home. Finn, what's been happening? I hear Sonntag is gunning for you.”

Mahone shrugged. “I haven't seen him. He in town?”

“No, but Ringer Cobb is. Be careful.”

“Sure. Is Otis around?”

“No, he isn't. He's wanting to see you, though. He's been acting very strange. Stopped drinking all of a sudden, and seems to have something on his mind. You'd better see him.”

“I will. Right now I want to look up Judge Collins.” Lightning flashed almost without cessation, and the rain had risen to a thundering roar. “Hombre tried to kill Tex today,” he told her. “Slim, wiry, dark fellow.”

“Mexie Roberts. He comes and goes, Finn, always by himself.”

“Know why he would want to kill Dowd?”

“For money. Roberts never killed anybody unless he got paid. If he tried to kill Texas, somebody was paying him.”

Mahone looked down at her. “Who d'you think, Lettie?”

She hesitated, then she looked up quickly. He could see doubt and worry in her eyes. “I don't know, Finn. I would be wrong if I said Sonntag or Salter … it feels like someone is playing with everyone like they were puppets!”

“I agree, but that doesn't help me know who it is. Well, I'm going over to see Collins. Armstrong, too.”

“Be careful of Cobb!” she warned.

He went out the front door, gathering his slicker about him but not fastening the buttons. At this time of night, Judge Collins might be in the Longhorn, as there was no light at Doc's. Or the judge might be at Ma Boyle's for coffee. At the thought of coffee, Finn suddenly realized he was hungry.

He slopped down the street in the pelting rain, and went on past the lights of the Longhorn. There was loud talk from within, and he hesitated while rain ran down his slicker and dribbled off on the walk. Otis might be in there. Collins, too. On the other hand, Ringer Cobb was almost sure to be. For an instant longer he hesitated, half in mind to go in and end it right then. But when he saw Ringer, if it ended in a fight he might have to get out of town, and he had things he needed to do. He went on down the street.

There was a light burning at
The Branding Iron
. He hesitated, then pushed open the door and walked in. When he had the door closed, he looked around. “Hey, Dean?”

There was no answer. “Dean!” he called again, louder. When there was still no answer, he walked around the high counter toward the trays of type and the desk.

Dean Anderson was lying facedown on the floor, his head bloody. Quickly, Finn bent over him. He was alive. Hurrying to the back door he filled a wash pan from the water bucket, grabbed up the towel that Dean kept hanging there, and hurried back.

Lifting him, he cradled Dean's head on his arm while he put the cold towel on his head. Gently, he sponged away the blood. It was a cut, a very nasty cut.

There was another, higher and in his hair. He sponged that off, too, and then Armstrong began to stir and mutter. “Hold still!” Finn commanded.

When Armstrong's eyes opened, they stared about in confusion. At this moment, without his dignity, he looked strangely young. Then he looked up and saw Mahone.

“Finn!” he said. “Man, I'm glad to see you!”

“What happened?” Mahone demanded.

“Cobb pistol-whipped me. Came in here about six, just after the rain started. Started in half joking about what I'd said in the paper, then he hit me over the eye with a pistol barrel.”

“You mean that item about Sonntag?”

Dean shook his head, then gasped and caught it with both hands. “No, the piece I had in today. I put out an extra edition.” He looked up. “It's on the table there.”

APPOINTMENT OF SONNTAG A MISTAKE

The appointment of Byrn Sonntag, notorious gunman, to investigate the cattle rustling was a mistake. If the election was to be held again tomorrow, the result would be against him. Since arriving in the Laird Valley country, Sonntag has killed at least three men, and his associates at Rawhide can scarcely be classed as good citizens. There are those on the range who declare it is more than a coincidence that certain brands belonging to Rawhide ranchers are very easily developed from brands already on this range. If Byrn Sonntag is to investigate rustling, it might be a good idea to begin in his own home town.

Finn Mahone looked up, grinning. “Dean,” he said, “it took guts to write that, but if I were you, I'd start packing a gun. Your paper gets around. Whoever is behind all this doesn't have a chance of making it work if the news gets outside of Laird Valley.”

“That's what I thought, and that's what I wrote!” Dean said firmly. He crawled to his feet and clutched the desk for support. “What good is a newspaper unless it tells the truth and fights for the rights of the people?”

Mahone shrugged. “A lot of them should ask that question of themselves,” he said dryly. “I'd better get Doc for you,” he said. “You'll need some stitches in that head!”

“He's at Ma Boyle's,” Dean said. “Or was starting for there just before Cobb showed up.”

“What are you going to do now?” Mahone asked, curiously.

“Do?” Dean demanded. “I'll tell you what I'm going to do! I'm going to print what just happened, call it the cowardly attack it was, and tell who did it and why!”

“Then you'd better pack a gun,” Finn advised. “This business is turning bad and I don't like it. I've already killed one man today.”

“You have?” Armstrong stared at him. “Who?”

“Fellow named Roberts. He tried to dry-gulch Texas Dowd.”

Finn pulled his slicker around him and walked outside. Rain was still pouring down, and the street was dark and empty. The blare of music came from the Longhorn, and he heard shouts there, and once a yell. It sounded like Ringer Cobb.

He pushed open the door and stepped into Mother Boyle's in a gust of wind and water. When he had the door closed, he turned his back to it and stood there, looking at the room, a big, somber figure with his rain-soaked hat, his dark slicker, and his green eyes taking the room in with one measuring glance.

Ma Boyle was standing beside Doc Finerty with a pot of coffee, and Judge Collins had turned as he entered. Nick James was there, the first time Mahone had seen him since the day of the fight. James looked up, quickly and with interest. He had one of those young-old faces, merry and friendly at times, then grave and serious. He was scarcely more than a boy, but had been doing a man's work since he was eleven.

“Doc,” Finn said, “better go have a look at Armstrong. Cobb pistol-whipped him.”

“I was afraid of that!” Doc said. He got up and reached for his slicker. “Keep some coffee on, Ma!”

Finn sat down at the end of the table, between James and Collins. Collins was concerned. “When Sonntag came in, I knew trouble was coming!”

Finn had hung his slicker and hat near the stove. He dished up some food and poured the coffee. Briefly, and quickly, he outlined the trouble at the Lazy K, and the outcome.