Collection 1989 - Long Ride Home (v5.0) (10 page)

His hand shot to his gun, but before he could draw, something crashed down over his head, and he tumbled forward into blackness.…

It was hours later when he opened his eyes. When he tried to lift his head a spasm of pain shot over him, and he groaned desperately. Then for a long moment he lay still, and through the wave of pain from his throbbing head, he remembered the stage, the boot print, the gold.

Desperately, he got to his hands and knees. The ground where his head had lain was a pool of blood, and when he lifted one hand, he found his hair matted with it and stiffened with sand. Crawling to his feet, he had to steady himself against a boulder. Then he retched violently, and was sick.

After he staggered to his horse and took a drink from his canteen, he felt better. Summoning all his resolution, he went back and examined the ground. The man had evidently followed him, waited behind a boulder, and as he returned to his horse, knocked him over the head. Quite obviously, he had been left for dead.

Clip walked back to his horse, checking his guns. They hadn't been tampered with. When he swung into the saddle and turned the big black down the trail, his lips were set in a tight, grim line. He loosened the big guns, and despite his throbbing head, cantered down the trail.

He didn't have far to ride. Only about three hundred yards from where he had waited, he found, the coach, lying on its side, one wheel smashed. A dead horse lay in a tangle of harness, and sprawled on the ground was the stage driver. He had been shot between the eyes with a rifle.

About twenty yards away, evidently killed as he was making for the shelter of a circle of boulders, was the messenger.

I
T WAS TWO hours before Clip Haynes rode up in front of the the High-Stake Palace and tied the black to the hitching rail. His head throbbing, he stepped in.

At once the hard round muzzle of a gun jammed into his spine.

Clip stopped, his hands slowly lifting.

“Back up, an' back careful!” he heard Buff McCarty saying, his voice deadly. “One false move an' I'll drill you, gunman or no gunman!”

“What's the matter, Buff?” Clip asked. His head throbbed and he felt his anger mounting.

“You ask what's the matter!” Wade Manning snapped. Stepping up he jerked Clip's guns from their holsters. “We trusted you, and then you—”

“We found the money, that's what!” Buff snarled, his voice husky with rage. “The money you took off Tommy! We shook down your duffle bag an' found it there—the whole three thousand dollars you murdered him for!”

“Listen, men!” he protested. “If you found any money there it was a plant. Why—”

“I'm sorry, boy,” Doc Greenley interrupted, shaking his head gravely, his usual smile gone. “We've got you dead to rights this time!”

Clip started to protest again, and then his jaw clamped shut. If they wanted to be like that, argument, he figured, was useless. He turned to walk out, and found himself facing Porter.

The big man sneered, and, for just an instant as Clip watched him, he saw the man's eyes flash a message to one of his captors. Then Porter was past, and Clip was being rushed to jail.

When the cell door clanged shut he walked across the narrow room, dropped on his bunk and was almost immediately asleep.

It seemed a long time later when he was awakened. It was completely dark, and listening, he knew the jail was deserted.

Clip walked across to the window, and took hold of the bars.

Then he heard a whisper. “Haynes!”

“Who is it?” he asked softly.

“It's me—Rafe. Stick your hand through the bars. I've got a key!”

Clip Haynes thrust his hand out, and felt the cold metal of a jail key in his hand. Then he heard Rafe speaking again. “Better make it quick. Porter's got a mob about worked up to lynching you.”

In two strides he was across the cell. The key grated in the lock, and the door swung wide. Then he turned and stepped back, throwing the blankets into a rough hump to resemble a sleeping figure. Going out, he locked the door after him. His gun belts were on the desk in the outer office, and he swept them up, hurriedly checking the guns as he stepped outside.

Rafe Landon was waiting there. Surprisingly, Rafe had the black horse with him. Without a word, Clip gripped the gambler's hand, and then swung up.

“Listen,” Rafe said, gripping his wrist. “Whoever robbed that stage today kidnaped Ruth!”

“What!” Clip jerked around, his jaws set.

“She rode out along the trail just before the stage left town. She told me she wanted to watch you. She hasn't returned yet, and Wade's just found out. There's only one place she can be—with the Barlows!”

“You know where they hang out?” Clip snapped.

“Somewhere back of the Organ. There's a box canyon up there, that might be it. Take the west route around the Organ and you'll find the trail, but watch your step!”

Clip looked down at Rafe in the darkness, his eyes keen. “Just what is Ruth Manning to you?” he demanded.

Clip thought he detected the ghost of a smile. “Does it matter? The girl's in danger!”

“Right!” Clip swung his horse. As he did so he heard someone shout, and glancing back, he saw a crowd of men spew from the doors of the High-Stake.

The big black stretched his legs and sprang away into the night, swinging around the town to the trail in tireless, space-eating strides.

CHAPTER 4

Gun Law Comes to Basin City

T
HE HUGE PINNACLES of rock known as the Organ loomed ahead. For years during his wanderings, Clip Haynes had heard of them. Some queer volcanic effect had shot these hollow spires up into the sky, leaving them thin to varying degrees, and under the blows of a stick or rock they gave forth a deep, resonant sound. Around them lay rugged, broken country.

For a half hour he cut back and forth through the rocks before he located the box canyon. And then it was the horse that found the narrow thread of trail winding among the boulders. A few minutes of riding, and he sighted the dim light which came from a cabin window.

He dismounted and slipped a gun into his hand. Then he walked boldly forward, and threw the door open.

A startled Mexican jerked up from his seat on a box and dropped a hand for his gun, but at the sight of Clip, he reached for air. “Don't shoot, senor!” he gasped. “
Por dios
, don't shoot!”

Clip stepped in and swung his back to the wall. “Where's the girl?” he snapped.

“The señorita, she here. The Barlows, they go.”

Clip stepped quickly across the room and spun the Mexican around. Picking up a handful of loose rope, he bound the man hand and foot. Then stooping, he untied Ruth.

“Thanks,” she said, rubbing her wrists. “I was beginning to think—”

“No!” he exclaimed dryly.

Her face stiffened abruptly. Clip grinned at her. “You had that coming, lady. Let's get out of here!”

Suddenly, he stopped. In the corner was a heap of sacks taken from the stage earlier that day. Pausing, he jerked the tie string. The sack toppled slowly over. And from its mouth spilled nothing more than a thin stream of sand!

“Why—!” Ruth gasped. “Why, where's the gold?”

“I'll show you later!” Clip said grimly. “I suspected this!”

There was no talk on the ride homeward. Clip rode at Ruth's side, seemingly intent only on reaching town. It was almost daylight when they rode swiftly up the dusty street.

“Should you do this?” she protested. “Aren't they looking for you?”

“If they are, they better not find me!” he snapped. “I'm doing some looking myself. You ride to your brother, quick, and tell him about that sand. Tell him to bring Buff McCarty to the High-Stake just as quick as he can make it!”

His eyes narrowed. “And you,” he went on grimly, “will have a chance to drop by the Sluice Box and see your precious lover, who didn't have guts enough to come after you himself!”

Her eyes widened with amazement, but before she could speak, he wheeled his horse and rode rapidly back up the street and dismounted. Then he walked into the Sluice Box, his face dark with rage.

Rafe Landon stood just inside the door. He walked up to Clip, smiling gravely. “I heard what you said to Ruth,” he said. “I want to tell you just two things, Haynes. The first has to do with my want of guts—as you put it. Once I offered you my hand, and you refused it. Will you take it now?”

Something in his manner seemed strange. Clip glanced down at the gloved hand. Then he took it. Amazement came into his eyes.

“Yes,” Rafe said, “you're right. It's iron. The blacksmith in Goldfield made it, several years ago. I lost both my hands after a fire.”

Clip looked up, his face tight. “Rafe, I—”

“Forget it. As for Ruth—”

The doors burst open, and Clip wheeled. Wade Manning stood in the door, Buff McCarty beside him. “The Barlows are coming!” he exclaimed, his face tense. “Both of them, Clip, and they've been bragging all morning that they'll kill you on sight!”

He stepped into the street, his steps echoing hollowly as he stepped across the boardwalk. He stopped in the edge of the dusty street and looked north.

The Barlows, Joe and Gonny, were standing on the porch in front of the old hotel building. Then they saw him, and started toward the steps.

Somewhere a horse whinnied, and in the saloon, a man's nervous laughter sounded strangely loud. Clip Haynes walked slowly, taking measured steps.

Joe Barlow's hand was poised over his gun. Gonny waited carelessly, slouching, a shock of hair hanging down over his eyes.

When they were fifty feet apart, the Barlows stiffened as though at a signal, and drew. Joe's hand moved; Clip Haynes shot.

The street broke in a thundering roar through which he found himself walking straight toward them, his guns hammering. He knew the first shot he had taken at Joe had been too quick. Suddenly it seemed as if a white hot branding iron had hit his left shoulder. He dropped that gun, feeling the warm blood run down his sleeve. His arm was useless—but his right gun kept firing.

Suddenly, Joe was falling from the steps, and almost as in a dream Clip saw the man straighten out, arms widespread, blood staining the dust beneath him.

Clip started to step forward, and realized suddenly that he was on his knees. He got up, feeling another slug hit him in the side. Gonny was facing him, legs spread wide, a fire-blossoming gun in either hand. A streak of red crossed his jaw.

Clip started toward him, holding his last bullet. Something slanted a rapier of pain along his ribs, and one of his legs tried to buckle, but still Clip held his fire. Then, suddenly, about a dozen feet away from Gonny, Clip Haynes turned loose his gun.

Almost before his eyes Gonny's gray flannel shirt turned into a crimson, sodden mass. The gunman started to fall, caught himself, and lifted a gun. They were almost body to body when the shot flamed in Clip's face. Something struck him a terrific blow on the side of the head, and he fell.…

Actually it was only a minute, but it seemed hours. Men were running from every direction, and as Clip Haynes caught at somebody's leg and pulled his bloody body erect, he heard Wade gabbling in his ear. But he didn't stop. It was only a dozen feet, but it seemed a mile. Step by step, he made it, fumbling shells into his gun.

Weaving on his feet, he stopped, facing Doc Greenley. His eyes wavered, then they focused.

Doc's face went sickly with fear. He opened and closed his mouth, trying to speak. Then suddenly he broke, and went for his gun.

It was just swinging level when Clip shot him. Then Clip pitched over on his face, and lay still.

He must have been a long time coming out of it because they were all there—Ruth, Rafe Landon, Wade Manning, and Buff McCarty—when he opened his eyes. He looked from one to the other.

“Doc?” he questioned weakly.

“You got him, Clip. We found the gold in his safe. He never moved an ounce of it, just sand. We made Porter confess. He robbed Tommy of the three thousand dollars, and later Doc Greenley made him plant it on you. One of the Barlows slugged you.

“We found the note you left in the jail. You were right. It was Doc who killed Tommy, trying to kill you. He didn't know you were Clip Haynes at first.

“I told him,” Wade continued, “never suspecting he was the guilty one behind all this. He knew he couldn't fool you. Felt he'd given himself away somehow. He confessed before he died.”

Clip nodded. “At first—at the mine. He said Clip Haynes got ten thousand. Only the law and the bandits knew it was that much.” Clip paused, a wan smile twisting his features. “He was the one planned that job—not Haynes. I was the law. The express company hired me. When he said that, I was suspicious.”

Clip closed his eyes, and lay very still. When he opened them again everyone was gone but Ruth. She was smiling, and she leaned over and kissed him gently on the lips.

“And Rafe?” he questioned.

“I tried to explain, but you ran away. He's my uncle—my mother's brother. He started Wade in business here, but no one knew. He thought it might hurt Wade if people knew a gambler backed him.”

“Oh,” he said. For a moment he was silent. Then he looked up, and they both smiled.

“That's nice,” he said.

SHANDY TAKES THE HOOK

F
OR THREE DAYS Shandy Gamble had been lying on his back in the Perigord House awaiting the stranger in the black mustache. Nichols, his name was, and if they were ever going to start cattle buying they had better be moving. The season was already late.

Shandy Gamble was seventeen years old and tall for his age. In fact, he was tall for any age. Four inches over six feet, he was all feet, hands, and shoulders. With his shirt off you could count every rib in his lean body.

Perigord was the biggest town Shandy had ever seen. In fact, it was only the third town he had seen in his life. With the cattle buyers in town there was most a thousand head of folks, and on the street Shandy felt uncomfortable and mighty crowded. Most of his time he spent down at the horse corrals or lying on his bed waiting for Nichols.

He had come to town to buy himself a new saddle and bridle. Maybe a new hat and shirt. He was a saving man, Shandy Gamble was, despite his youth. Now he not only was holding his own money but five hundred dollars belonging to Nichols. Had it not been for that he wouldn't have waited, for by now he was homesick for the KT outfit.

Nichols was a big, powerful man with a smooth shaved face and black, prominent eyes. He also had black hair and a black mustache. Shandy had been leaning on the corral gate when Nichols approached him.

“Good afternoon, sir!” Nichols thrust out a huge hand. “I understand you're a cattleman?”

Shandy Gamble blinked. Nobody had ever called him a cattleman before and his chest swelled appreciably. He was a forty-dollar-a-month cowhand, although at the moment he did have five hundred and fifty-two dollars in his pocket.

Fifty-two dollars was saved from his wages, and the five hundred was half the reward money for nailing two horse thieves back in the cedar country. Shandy had tracked them back there for Deputy Sheriff Holloway, and then when they killed Holloway he got mad and went in after them. He brought one out dead and one so badly mauled he wished he was dead. There was a thousand dollars on their heads and Shandy tried to give it to Mrs. Holloway, but she would accept only half.

Shandy shifted uneasily on the bed. It was time Nichols got back. The proposition had sounded good, no question about that. “You can't beat it, Gamble,” Nichols had said. “You know cattle and I've the connections in Kansas City and Chicago. We can ride over the country buying cattle, then ship and sell them. A nice profit for both of us.”

“That would take money, and I ain't got much,” Shandy had said.

Nichols eyed him thoughtfully. No use telling the boy he had seen that roll when Shandy paid for his room in advance. “It won't take much to start,” Nichols scowled as he considered the size of Shandy's roll. “Say a thousand dollars.”

“Shucks,” Shandy was regretful. “I ain't got but five hundred.”

“Fine!” Nichols clapped him on the shoulder. “We're partners then! You put up five hundred and I'll put up five hundred! We'll bank that here, and then start buying. I've got unlimited credit east of here, and when the thousand is gone, we'll draw on that. At this stage you'll be the one doing most of the thinking, so you won't need to put as much cash into it as I do.”

“Well—” Shandy was not sure. It sounded like a good deal, and who knew cows better than he did? He had been practically raised with cows. “Maybe it would be a good deal. Old Ed France has a herd nobody's looked at, nice, fat stock, too.”

“Good!” Nichols clapped him on the shoulder again. From his pocket he took a long brown envelope and a sheaf of bills. Very carefully he counted off five hundred dollars and stuck it into the envelope. “Now your five hundred.”

Shandy dug down and hauled out his bills and counted off the five hundred dollars and tucked it into the envelope.

“Now,” Nichols started to put the envelope in his pocket, “we'll go to the bank, and—”

He stopped, then withdrew the envelope. “No, you just keep this on you. We'll bank it later.”

Shandy Gamble accepted the fat envelope and stuck it into his shirt. Nichols glanced at his watch then rubbed his jaw. “Tell you what,” Nichols said, “I've got to catch the stage for Holbrook. I'll be back tomorrow night. You stick around and don't let this money out of your hands, whatever you do. I'll see you at the hotel.”

Shandy watched him go, shrugged, and went back to watching the horses. There was a fine black gelding there. Now if he was a cattle buyer, he would own that gelding, buy the new saddle and bridle, and some fancy clothes like Jim Finnegan wore, and would he show that outfit back on the KT!

The wait had dampened his enthusiasm. Truth was, he liked the KT and liked working with the boys. They were a good outfit. He rolled over on the bed and swung his feet to the floor. Reaching for his boots he shoved his big feet into them and stood up.

To blazes with it! He'd open the envelope, leave the money in the bank for Nichols, and go back to the outfit. He was no cattle buyer, anyway. He was a cowhand.

Taking out the brown envelope, he ripped it open. Slowly he turned cold and empty inside, and stood there, his jaw slack, his shock of corn silk hair hanging over his face. The envelope was stuffed with old newspapers.

T
HE SPRING GRASS faded from green to brown and dust gathered in the trails. Water holes shrank and the dried earth cracked around them and the cattle grew gaunt. It was a hard year on the caprock, and that meant work for the hands.

Shandy Gamble was in the saddle eighteen to twenty hours most days, rounding up strays and pushing them south to the gullies and remaining water holes. When he had returned without his saddle there was a lot of jawing about it, and the boys all poked fun at Shandy, but he grinned widely and took it, letting them believe he had drunk it up or spent it on women.

Jim Finnegan rode out one day on a gray horse. He was looking the situation over and making estimates on the beef to be had after the fall roundup. Shandy was drifting south with three head of gaunted stock when they met. Gamble drew up and Finnegan joined him. “Howdy, son! Stock looks poor.”

“Yeah,” Shandy dug for the makings, “we need rain plumb bad.” He rolled his smoke, then asked quietly, “You ever hear of a buyer name of Nichols? Big, black-eyed man?”

Shandy's description was accurate and painstaking, the sort of description a man might give who was used to reading sign and who thirty seconds after a glimpse of a horse or cow could describe its every hair and ailment.

“Nichols? You've forgotten the name, son. No, the hombre you describe is Abel Kotch. He's a card slick an' confidence man. Brute of a fighter, too. Brags he never saw the man could stand up to him in a fist fight.”

“Seen him around?”

“Yeah, he was around Fort Worth earlier this year. He rousts around with the June boys.”

The June boys. There were five of the Junes—the old man, Pete June, and the four outlaw sons: Alec, Tom, Buck, and Windy. All were gun slicks, bad men, dirty, unkempt drifters, known to be killers, believed to be horse and cow thieves, and suspected of some out and out murders.

Two nights later, back at the bunkhouse, Johnny Smith rode in with the mail, riding down from Tuckup way where he had stopped to ask after some iron work being done for the ranch by the Tuckup blacksmith. Tuckup was mostly an outlaw town, but the blacksmith there was the best around. Cowhands do most of their own work, but the man at Tuckup could make anything with iron, and the KT boss had been getting some fancy andirons for his fireplace.

“Killin' over to Tuckup,” Johnny said, as he swung down. “That Sullivan from Brady Canyon tangled with Windy June. Windy bored him plenty.”

Shandy Gamble's head came up. “June? The rest of that outfit there?”

“Sure, the whole shootin' match o' Junes!”

“Big, black-eyed fellow with 'em? Black mustache?”

“Kotch? Sure as you know he is. He whupped the blacksmith. Beat him so bad he couldn't finish the old man's andirons. That's a rough outfit.”

The boss of the KT was talking to Jim Finnegan when Shandy strolled up. “Boss, anything you want done over Tuckup way? I got to ride over there.”

The Boss glanced at him sharply. It was unlike Gamble to ask permission to be away from his work. He was a good hand, and worked like two men. If he wanted to go to Tuckup there was a reason.

“Yeah. Ask about my irons. Too, you might have a look up around the water pocket. We're missin' some cows. If you find them, or see any suspicious tracks, come ahootin' an' we'll ride up that way.”

S
HANDY GAMBLE WAS astride a buckskin that belonged to the KT. He was a short coupled horse with a wide head, good at cutting or roping, but a good trail horse, too. Johnny Smith, who was mending a bridle, glanced up in time to see Gamble going out of the door with his rifle in his hand. That was not too unusual, with plenty of wolves and lions around, but Shandy was wearing two guns, something that hadn't happened for a long time. Johnny's brow puckered, then he shrugged and went back to work on the bridle.

The Tuckup Trail was a scar across the face of the desert. It was a gash in the plateau, and everywhere was rock, red rock, pink rock, white, yellow, and buff rock, twisted and gnarled into weird shapes. By night it was a ghost land where a wide moon floated over the blasted remains of ancient mountains, and by day it was an oven blazing with heat and dancing with dust devils and heat-waved distance.

Tuckup was a cluster of shabby down-at-heel buildings tucked back into a hollow among the rocks. It boasted that there was a grave in boot hill for every living person in town, and they always had two empty graves waiting to receive the next customers.

Tuckup was high, and despite the blazing heat of the day, a fire was usually welcome at night. The King High Saloon was the town's resort, meeting place, and hang-out. Second only to it was the stable, a rambling, gloomy building full of stalls for sixty horses and a loft full of hay.

Shandy Gamble stabled his horse and gave it a good rubdown. It had a hard ride ahead of it, for he knew that there would be no remaining in town after he had done what he had to do.

Lean, gangling, and slightly stooped, he stood in the stable door and rolled a smoke. His shoulders seemed excessively broad above the narrow hips, and the two .44's hung with their butts wide and easy to his big hands. He wore jeans and a faded checkered shirt. His hat was gray, dusty and battered. There was a hole through the crown that one of the horse thieves had put there.

There was the saloon, a general store, the blacksmith shop, and livery stable. Beyond and around was a scattering of a dozen or so houses, mostly mere shacks. Then there were two bunkhouses that called themselves hotels.

Shandy Gamble walked slowly across to the blacksmith shop. The smith was a burly man, and when he looked up, Shandy saw a deep half-healed cut on his cheekbone and an eye still swollen and dark. “KT irons ready?” Shandy asked, to identify himself.

“Will be.” The smith stared at him. “Rider from there just here yestiddy. Your boss must be in a mighty hurry.”

“Ain't that. I had some business over here. Know an hombre name of Kotch?”

The smith glared. “You bein' funny?”

“No. I got business with him.”

“Trouble?”

“Uh-huh. I'm goin' to beat his head in.”

The smith shrugged. “Try it if you want. I done tried but not no more. He durned near kilt me.”

“He won't kill me.”

“Your funeral. He's up at the King High.” The smith looked at him. “You be keerful. Them Junes is up there, too.” He wiped his mustache. “KT, you better think again. You're only a kid.”

“My feet make as big tracks as his'n.”

“Goin' in, they may. Comin' out they may be a sight smaller.”

Shandy Gamble's eyes were chill. “Like you said, it's my funeral.”

He hitched his guns in place and started across the street. He was almost to the hitch rail in front of the King High when he saw a fresh hide hung over the fence. It was still bloody. Curiously, he walked back. The brand had been cut away from the rest of the hide. Poking around in a pile of refuse ready for burning, he found it, scraped it clean, and tucked it into his pocket. He was turning when he looked up to see a man standing near him.

He was several inches shorter than Shandy, but he was wide and blocky. He wore his gun tied down and he looked mean. His cheeks were hollow and his eyes small. “What you doin', pokin' around here?”

“Just lookin'.” Shandy straightened to his full height. “Sort of proddin' around.”

“Whar you from?”

“Ridin' for the KT.”

The man's lips tightened. “Git out of here!”

“Don't aim to be in no hurry.”

“You know who I am? I'm Tom June, an' when I say travel, I mean it!”

Shandy stood looking at him, his eyes mild. “Well, now. Tom June, I've heard o' you. Heard you was a cow thief an' a rustler.”

“Why, you—!” His hand swept for his gun, but Shandy had no idea to start a shooting now. His long left slammed out, his fist balled and rock hard. It caught Tom June flush on the mouth as his hand swept back for his gun and his head came forward. At the same time, Shandy's right swung into the pit of the man's stomach and his left dropped to the gun wrist.

The struggle was brief, desperate, and final. Shandy clubbed a big fist to the man's temple and he folded. Hurriedly, Shandy dragged him into a shed, disarmed and tied him. The last job he did well. Then he straightened and walked back to the street.

A quick glance up and down, and then he went up the steps to the porch in front of the King High Saloon, and through the batwing doors.

Five men sat around a poker game. Shandy recognized the broad back instantly as that of Nichols, who he now knew was Abel Kotch. At least two of the others were Junes, as he could tell from their faces.