Collection 1988 - Lonigan (v5.0) (18 page)

He was feeding the sticks into the blaze when he heard another horse.

“Busy little place,” he mentally commented, straightening up.

He stepped back from the fire, then heard a hoof strike stone, and saddle leather creak as of someone dismounting.

“Come on up to the fire,” he said. “We're all friends here.”

A spur jingled, feet crunched on gravel, and then he was looking across the fire into the eyes of a girl, a tall girl with a slim, willowy body.

She wore blue jeans and a man's battered hat. Her shirt, with a buckskin vest worn over it, was gray. She wore a gun, Tandy observed.

“By jimminy!” he exclaimed. “A woman! Sure never figured to see a woman in these hills, ma'am. Will you join me in some coffee?”

Her eyes showed no friendliness. “Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you want here?”

“Me?” Tandy shrugged. “Just a driftin' cowhand, ma'am. This water hole figgered to be a good camp for the night.”

“Here?” Her voice was dry, skeptical. “When it is only six miles to the Block T?”

“Well, now. I'd started my camp before I knowed that, ma'am. Hombre name of Kleinback told me about the Block T.”

Tandy was watching her when he said the name, Kleinback, and he saw her face stiffen a little.

“Oh?” she said. “So you've seen Roy? Are you working for him?”

“Huntin' work, ma'am. I'm a top hand. You know the Block T? Mebbe they could use me?”

“I'm Clarabel Jornal,” she told him. “My uncle ramrods the Block T. He won't need you.”

“Mebbe I'd better talk to him,” Tandy said, smiling.

Her eyes blazed, and she took a step nearer the fire.

“Listen, rider!” she said sharply. “You'd best keep right on drifting! There's nothing in this country for anybody as nosy as you! Get going! If you don't, I'll send Pipal down to see you in the morning!”

“Who's he? The local watchdog? Sorry, ma'am, but I don't scare easy, so maybe you'd better send him. I ain't a right tough hombre, but I get along. As for being nosy, if you think I'm nosy you must be right sort of nosy yourself, comin' down here advising me to move on. I like it here, ma'am. In fact”—he paused to give emphasis to his words—“I may set up a ranch right here.”

“Here?” Consternation struggled with anger in her voice. “Why here, of all places? Anyway, this is Block T range.”

“Not filed on by Block T. Just claimed.” Thayer grinned. “Ma'am, you might's well have some coffee.”

“No!” she flared. “You be out of here by daylight or I'll send Pipal after you! He's killed four men!”

Tandy Thayer smiled, but his lips were thin and his eyes cold.

“Has he now? Suppose you just keep him at home in the mornin', ma'am. I'll come right up to the Block T, and if he's in a sweat to make it five, he can have his chance!”

When the girl swung into the saddle, her face angry, Thayer leaned back against the boulder once more. She was from the Block T, and the Block T claimed this range. Perhaps they had objected to Jim Drew's ranching here. And Pipal, whoever he was, might have done the objecting with lead.…

By daylight the setup looked no different than it had the previous night except that now Tandy Thayer studied the terrain with a new eye. Some changes, indicated by the mesquite bush planted in the posthole, had been made. With that in mind, he found the location of more postholes, found where the house had been and the barn.

Whoever had removed the traces of Drew and his ranch, had removed them with extraordinary care. Evidently they had expected someone to come looking and had believed they could fool whoever it would be. Only they had not known of the painstaking care with which old Jim gave directions, nor his habit of doodling with a knife.

Saddling up, Tandy Thayer headed up the trail between the river and the mountains for the Block T.

The place was nothing to look at: a long L-shaped adobe house shaded by giant cottonwoods, three pole corrals, a combination stable and blacksmith shop, the corner of the shop shielded from the sun by still another huge cottonwood, and a long bunkhouse.

Two horses were standing near the corral when Tandy rode into the ranch yard, and a short, square man with a dark face and a thin mustache came to the bunkhouse door and shaded his eyes to look at him.

A
T ALMOST THE same moment, a tall man in a faded checked shirt and vest came from the house. Thayer reined in before him.

“Howdy!” he said. “You Bill Hofer?”

“That's right.” The man had keen, slightly worried blue eyes with a guarded look in their depths. He wore a six-gun tied too high to be of much use.

“Hunting a riding job,” Tandy said. “Top hand, horse wrangler.”

Hofer hesitated. “I can use you, all right,” he said then. “We're shorthanded here. Throw your gear in the bunkhouse and get some grub.”

The man with the thin mustache was nowhere in sight when Tandy shoved through the bunkhouse door and dropped his saddlebags on the first empty bunk he saw. He glanced around, and a frown gathered between his eyes. The bunkhouse had been built to accommodate at least twenty men, but only five bunks gave signs of occupancy.

As he was looking around, a red-headed hand came in, glancing at him.

“New, eh?” the redhead said. “Better throw your duffle back on your horse and ramble, pardner. This ain't a healthy place, noway.”

Tandy turned, and his eyes swept the redhead. “That warning friendly, or not? Too many folks seem aimin' for me to move on.”

Red shrugged. “Plumb friendly.” He waved a hand at the empty bunks. “That look good? You ain't no pilgrim. What about a spread that ordinarily uses twenty hands, and could use thirty, but only has four workin' hands and a cook? Does that look good?”

“What's the trouble?” asked Tandy.

“Maybe one thing, and maybe another. The trouble is, the boss hires 'em and Pipal fires 'em.”

“Who's Pipal?”

A foot grated in the doorway and Red turned, his face turning a shade lighter under the freckles. The man with the thin mustache above cruel lips, and black eyes that bored into Thayer, stood there. He wore two guns, tied low, and was plainly a half-breed.

Warning signals sounded in Tandy's brain. Four men killed. Had one of them been Jim Drew? The thought stirred something deep within him, something primeval and ugly, something he had forgotten was there. He met the black eyes with his own steady, unblinking gaze.

“I am Pipal,” the swarthy man said, his voice flat and level. “We do not need another hand. You will mount and ride.”

Thayer smiled suddenly. This was trouble, and he wasn't backing away from it. He was no gunslinger, but he had put in more than a few years fighting Comanches and rustlers.

“The boss hired me,” he said coldly. “The boss can fire me.”

“I said—
go
!” Pipal cracked the word like a man cracks a bullwhip, and as he spoke, he stepped nearer, his hand dropping to his gun.

Tandy's left fist was at his belt where the thumb had been hooked a moment before. He drove it into the pit of Pipal's stomach with a snapping jolt, shooting it right from where it was. Pipal's wind left him with a grunt, and he doubled up in agony. Thayer promptly jerked his knee up into Pipal's face, knocking the man's head back. With Pipal's chin wide open and blood streaming from a smashed nose, Tandy set himself and swung left and right from his hip. Pipal went down in a heap.

Coolly, Tandy stepped over to him, jerked his guns from their holsters and shucked the shells into the palm of his hand. He dropped them into his pocket.

Pipal lay on the floor, blood dripping from his nose and his breath coming in wracking gasps.

“You better hightail,” Red suggested. “He's a ringtailed terror with them guns.”

Thayer grinned at Red and drew a smiling response. “I like it here,” he said. “I'm stayin'!”

Pipal started to get up, and Thayer looked around at him.

“You get out!” he said harshly. “I don't know who you're runnin' errands for, but I mean to find out.”

The half-breed glared at him, hatred a burning light in their black depths.

“I kill you!” he said.

Tandy seized the man by the collar and, jerking him erect, hit him two fast punches in the wind, then slapped him across the face. With a shove, he drove the gunman through the door, where he tripped and sprawled on his face.

“Look!” Tandy yelled.

He whipped a playing card from his pocket and spun it high into the air. In almost the same motion, he drew and fired. The card fluttered to the earth, and he calmly walked over to it and picked it up, thrusting it before Pipal's eyes and the startled eyes of Red and Hofer, who had come from the house. It was an ace of spades—with the ace shot neatly from the center!

P
IPAL GULPED AND slowly climbed to his feet. His nose still bled, and he backed away, wiping it with the back of his hand, an awed expression on his face. Calmly Tandy thrust the playing card into his shirt pocket and fed another shell into his six-gun.

“I don't like trouble,” he remarked, “but I can handle it.…”

Three days passed quietly. There was plenty to do on the Block T, and Tandy Thayer had little time for looking around on his own, but he was learning things. The Block T was overrun with unbranded stock, and no effort was being made to brand any of it. Much of this stock was ranging far to the south around the Opal Mountains, where there was rich grass in the draws and plenty of water for that type of range.

Red Ringo was a mine of information. Red had been a rider for the Block T when he was sixteen, and had ridden for it four years. He then had drifted to Wyoming, Kansas, and Indian Territory, but finally headed back home. Three months before he had hired on at the Block T again, finding it vastly changed.

“Funny how a spread can go to pot in a short while,” he commented to Tandy Thayer. “Even Bill Hofer's changed. He's thinner, cranky like he never used to be, and he packs a gun, something he never did in the old days. All the old hands are gone, and the last two was drove off by this Pipal. Why don't Hofer fire him?”

“Maybe he's afraid of him, too,” Tandy suggested.

“Could be,” Red agreed dubiously. “But he never used to be afraid of anything.”

“When did all this trouble start?” asked Tandy.

“Well,” Ringo said thoughtfully, “near as I know from what the old hands told me before they left, it started about the time the owner came out from Chicago. He came out and stayed on the ranch for a couple of weeks and then left, but whatever happened then, Hofer's never been the same since.” Ringo leaned on the shovel with which he had been cleaning a water hole. “Another thing, Bill Hofer never had no use for Roy Kleinback before, but he sees a lot of him now. So does Miss Clarabel.”

“What about Kleinback? He owns the K Bar, don't he?”

“Sure does. Rawhider, or was. Lately he's been doing better. Pretty slick with a gun, and a hand with his fists, too. He has three or four hands down there with him, but they don't amount to much aside from bein' crooked enough to do anything they are told if there's money in it.”

Tandy Thayer hesitated and then with his eyes on Red Ringo, asked casually, “Ever hear of an old-timer around here named Jim Drew?”

“Drew? Can't say as I have. You mean an old man, or old in the country?”

“An old man. Cantankerous old cuss. Makes the best coffee in the world and the best biscuits. He was a friend of mine, a mighty good friend, and he's how come I'm here at all.”

Briefly, Thayer explained about the letters that brought him here, and about finding the ranch site. Ringo listened with attention, and when Tandy stopped talking, he bit off a healthy chew.

“Listen,” he said. “I come back here about three months ago. That was a month or maybe less after the big boss was here. I hired on, but the very day I started work, Hofer told me I was to work away from the river, and on no account to go near Moss Springs. He said there'd been some trouble over it and till it was straightened out, we'd stay away. Moss Springs is the water hole you mentioned.…”

Back at the ranch, Tandy sat under a huge cottonwood near the blacksmith shop and studied the situation through the smoke of a half-dozen cigarettes. No way could it make sense, so there must be something he didn't know.

Where was Jim Drew? What had caused the change in Bill Hofer and the Block T? Why was Pipal kept on? Did Hofer's new friendship for Kleinback have anything to do with all this?

In the three days Tandy had been on the ranch he had spent most of his time at work, and at no time had he seen Clarabel. Nor had he seen Kleinback. Pipal was around, but he remained strictly away from Tandy and never met his eyes if he could avoid it.

Obviously, the Drew ranch had been cleaned out because somebody did not want Tandy Thayer, the expected visitor, to find it. And they must have done away with Jim Drew at the same time. But why? What did they have to conceal?

Studied from every angle, the trouble seemed to have started with the leaving of the big boss, the owner—J. T. Martin. It was after that when Pipal came to the Block T, and after he came that the old hands started to drift away. It would almost appear that someone wanted the old hands driven off.

I
F THERE HAD been such an attempt, and if Drew had been killed or run off in connection with it, then there had to be profit somewhere for the instigators of the plot. What was profitable in this ranch? Cattle? And the range now covered with thousands of unbranded cattle, ready for the taking?

“So? It's you?”

At the sound of the girl's voice, Tandy glanced up and then got slowly to his feet.