Collection 1989 - Long Ride Home (v5.0) (17 page)

Passman's eyes were flat and gray. “You talk a lot,” he said shortly, “but can you shoot?”

Lynn waved an irritated hand. “Who were those hombres you shot up north?”

“I shot?” Meadows looked mildly astonished. “Why, Sheriff, I didn't say I shot anybody. I did hear something about the Alvarez gang catching some lead over some horses, they stole, but beyond that I'm afraid I don't remember much about it.”

“You deny you shot them? You deny the fight?”

“I don't deny anything, and I don't admit anything.” Tandy's voice was cool. “If you're planning to arrest me, by all means do it. Also, get me a lawyer down here, then either file charges against me or turn me loose. This whole proceeding, Sheriff, is highly irregular. All you have is Tollefson's word that he saw some skeletons somewhere. Or some dead men, or some bullet holes, or something. You know that I was wounded about the same time, but even if they were not horse thieves, you'd have a tough time proving any connection.”

Lynn was uneasy. This was the truth and he knew it, but this was what Tollefson wanted, and what he wanted he got. Yet for almost three hours he persisted in asking questions, badgering Meadows with first one and then another, and trying to trap him. Yet he got nowhere. Finally, he got to his feet. “All right, you can go. If I want any more questions answered, I'll send for you.”

Meadows got to his feet and let his eyes, suddenly grown cold, go over the four men. “All right, Sheriff, I'm always glad to answer questions, but get this: if anything has happened to my horses while I was in here, I'm coming back, and I'll be looking for each and every one of you.

“And that, Lynn,” his eyes turned to the sheriff, “goes for you, sheriff or no sheriff! I'm a law-abiding man, and have always been, but if you've conspired with that fat-headed Tollefson to keep my horse out of that race, and through it harm comes to my horses, you'd better start packing a gun for me! Get that?”

George Lynn's face whitened and he involuntarily drew back. Worriedly, he glanced at Fulton and Passman for support. Fulton was pale as himself, and Passman leaned against the wall, nonchalantly rolling a cigarette. Rube Hatley stood near the door, his position unchanged. Meadows turned and walked past him, scarcely hearing the whispered, “Luck!” from Rube.

After he was gone, Lynn stared at Fulton. “Harry, what will we do?”

Rube Hatley chuckled. “Only one thing you can do, Sheriff. You can light a shuck out of the country or you can die. Either way, I don't care. I wanted no part of this yellow-bellied stunt, and if they were my horses I'd shoot you on sight.”

“Passman?” Lynn was almost pleading. “You're the gunslinger.”

Passman shrugged. “When I get my orders. Until then I don't make a move.” He turned on his heel and walked out into the night.

Lynn stared at Fulton. “Harry,” he begged, “you know. What did they do?”

“Do?” Fulton's hand shook as he lighted his smoke. “Tollefson's too smart to pull anything too raw. He just had some of the boys take those horses out and run them over the desert for three hours, that's all! By daylight those horses will be so stiff and stove up they wouldn't be able to walk that quarter, let alone run it!”

“What about the black boy?”

Fulton shrugged. “That's another story. Who cares about him?”

“Meadows might.”

“Yeah.” Fulton was thoughtful. “He might at that. But you can be sure of one thing, after the runnin' his horses got this night, through cactus, brush, and rocks, they'll do no running tomorrow. I can promise you that! You leave the rest to Passman!”

“Did Tollefson actually
see
those skeletons?”

“He sure did.” Fulton's voice was dry, emotionless. “And from what he said, if that was Tandy Meadows who walked into that shack after the Alvarez boys, he's got nerve enough to crawl down a hole after a nest full of rattlers, believe me!”

CHAPTER 4

Gilt-Edged Collateral

M
ORNING DAWNED BRIGHT and still, and for the better part of two hours it remained bright and still, and then the boys from the ranches began to show up in El Poleo. Hard-riding youngsters, most of them, with here and there older men whose eyes were careful and wary with the sense of trouble.

Buckboards, a fringed surrey, a Conestoga wagon, and many horseback riders, all coming in for the races, and all curious about what would happen. Some had heard there had been trouble the night before, but what or when, they did not know.

Art Tollefson came in about noon. The covered wagon stood in the creek bottom disconsolate and alone. No horses were in sight, nor movement of any kind. His lips thinned with cruelty and his eyes were bright with triumph and satisfaction. Try to buck Art Tollefson, would they!

He was walking into the saloon when he saw a buckboard draw up between two buildings, and Gene Bates and Jim Whitten got down. His lips tightened and he walked on into the saloon.

The usual jovial laughter stilled as he entered. With a wave of the hand he invited all and sundry to join him at the bar. Each year this was his custom at this time, but now there was no concerted rush for the bar.

This time, not a man moved.

Impatiently, he stared around the room but all eyes avoided his. Then Fulton stepped to the bar followed by several of his own Flying T riders. His face and neck crimson, Tollefson stared down at his drink, his jaw set hard.

Gene Bates and Jim Whitten walked into the saloon and to the bar. “Tollefson's buyin',” the bartender explained hurriedly.

“Not our drinks!” Bates's voice was flat. “I'll drink with no man who hires his killin' done and hires other men to ruin a man's horses so he loses a race!”

Tollefson whirled. The truth was hard to take, he found. “Who said that?” he demanded. “That's a lie!”

Bates faced him. The white-haired old man's blue eyes were fierce. “Better back up on that, Tollefson,” he advised coldly. “Passman's not here to do your shootin' for you this time!”

Tollefson's fingers stiffened, and for an instant he seemed about to draw, but at Fulton's low-voiced warning, he turned back to the bar.

Sheriff George Lynn pushed through the doors and walked to the bar. He spoke under his breath to Tollefson. “They did it all right! They ran those horses half to death! I passed 'em out on the flat not thirty minutes ago, and a worse lookin' bunch you never did see! I couldn't get close, but it was close enough!”

“What will Meadows do now?” Fulton asked, low voiced.

Rube Hatley had come in. He overheard Fulton's remark and leaned both elbows on the bar. “Do?” Rube chuckled without humor. “If I were you hombres I'd do one of two things. I'd start ridin' or start shootin'!”

The course was the same straightaway course they had used for this race for several years. There were several two-twenty and three-thirty races to be run off before the quarter races began.

Tollefson watched nervously, his eyes roving the crowd. He saw neither Tandy Meadows nor Snap. Janet Bates rode in with Johnny Herndon, and they joined her father and Jim Whitten.

Fulton sat with Tollefson and Sheriff Lynn, and the last to arrive was Tom Passman. He dismounted but kept free of the crowd. Tollefson noted with relief that he was wearing two guns, something he rarely did. When he walked to the edge of the track, people moved away from him.

The quarter horse race was announced, and Tollefson touched his lips uneasily with his tongue as he watched. Lady Luck walking into place in the line. Three other horses were entered in this race and they all showed up. All, but one had been beaten by the Lady in previous races, and Tollefson began to breathe easier.

What a fool he had been to take such a chance! Well, it was over now, and he was safe. But where was Meadows?

Fulton grabbed his arm. “
Look!
” he gasped. “Look there!”

Another horse had moved into line, a sorrel, and beautifully made. The rider on the last horse was Snap, Meadows's Negro rider.

Tollefson's face flushed, then went white. He started forward, but stopped suddenly. Gene Bates was standing in front of him with a shotgun. “Let's let 'em run,” Bates suggested. “You keep your place!”

Tollefson drew back, glancing around desperately. Sheriff Lynn had disappeared, but Rube Hatley loafed nearby. “Do something, man!” Tollefson insisted.

“For what?” Hatley grinned at him, his eyes hard. “Nobody's busted any law that I can see. That shotgun's in the hollow of his arm. Nobody says he can't carry it there.”

Now the horses were moving together toward the far end of the course. As in a trance, Art Tollefson watched them go, watched most of all that sorrel with the squat black rider. Suddenly, he felt sick. If that horse won, he was through,
through
! It was unthinkable.

He turned sharply. “Tom!” he said. Passman looked around, his eyes level and gray. “When you see him! And there's a bonus in it for you!”

Passman nodded but made no other reply. Fulton felt a constriction in his chest. He had heard Tollefson order men beaten, cattle driven off, homes burned, but this was the first time he had actually heard him order a man killed. Yet nowhere was there any sign of Tandy Meadows.

Tollefson sat his horse where he could see the race, the full length of the course. His eyes went now to the far end where the horses were lining up now, and his heart began to pound. His fingers on the saddle horn were relaxed and powerless. Suddenly, the full impact of his bet came home to him, and he realized, almost for the first time, what losing would mean.

How had he ever been such a fool? Such an utter and complete fool? How had he been trapped into such a situation?

His thoughts were cut sharply off by the crack of a pistol, and his heart gave a tremendous leap as he saw the horses lunge into a dead run. Lady Luck had seemed almost to squat as the pistol cracked, and then bounded forward and was down the track running like a scared rabbit.

Tollefson, his breath coming hoarsely, stood in his stirrups, his agonized stare on the charging horses, and suddenly he realized he was shouting his triumph, for the Lady was well off and running beautifully. Then, even as he cheered, a sorrel shot from the group behind the Lady and swooped down upon her!

His pulse pounding, his eyes bulging with fear and horror, he saw that rusty streak of horse come up behind the Lady, saw its head draw abreast, then the nose was at the Lady's shoulder, and the Lady was running like something possessed, as if she knew what great change rode with her. Tollefson was shouting madly now, almost in a frenzy, for out there with those running horses was everything he owned, everything he had fought for, burned for, killed for. And now that sorrel with its crouching black rider was neck and neck with the Lady, and then with the finish line only a length away the sorrel seemed to give a great leap and shot over the finish line, winner by half a length!

Tollefson sagged back in his saddle, staring blindly down the hill. Tricked—tricked and beaten. Lady Luck was beaten. He was beaten. He was through, finished!

Then he remembered Tom Passman, and saw him standing down by the finish line, away from him.
Pass-man!
Tollefson's eyes suddenly sharpened. He could still win! Passman could kill them! He could kill Meadows, Whitten, Bates! Anyone who fought or resisted him! He would turn his riders loose on the town, he would—

Then a voice behind him turned him cold and still inside. “Well, you lost, Tollefson. You've got until sundown to get out of the country. You can load your personal belongings, no more. You can take a team and a buckboard. Get moving!”

Passman seemed to have heard. He turned slowly, and he was looking at them now from forty yards away. In a daze, Tollefson saw Tandy. Meadows step out toward the gunman, holding in his hands nothing but the rawhide riata.

Tom Passman crouched a little, his eyes riveted on Meadows, his mind doing a quick study. If he drew and killed an unarmed man, there was a chance not even Tollefson could save him. Yet was Meadows unarmed? At what point might he not suddenly flash a gun from his shirt-front or waistband?

Meadows took another step, switching the rope in his hands with seeming carelessness. Again Passman's eyes searched Meadows's clothing for a suspicious bulge, and saw none. Surely, the man would not come down here without a weapon? It was beyond belief. “What's the matter, Tom?” Meadows taunted. “Yellow?”

As he spoke, his hands flipped, and as Passman's hands swept down for his guns he saw something leap at him like a streak of light. He threw up a hand, tried to spring aside, but that rawhide riata loop snapped over his shoulders and whipped taut even as his hands started to lift the guns, and he was jerked off balance.

He staggered, trying desperately to draw a gun, but his arms were pinned to his sides. Meadows took two running steps toward him, throwing another loop of the rope over his shoulders that fell to his ankles. He jerked hard and the gunman fell, hitting hard in the dust. He struggled to get up, and Tandy jerked him from his feet again. Tandy stood off, smiling grimly.

Then, stepping in quickly, he jerked the guns from Passman's holsters and tossed them aside. Springing back, he let Passman fight his way free of the noose. As the loop dropped from the gunman, he wheeled on Meadows, and Tandy struck him across the mouth with the back of his hand.

It was deliberate, infuriating. Passman went blind with rage and rushed. A left smeared his lips and a roundhouse right caught him on the ear. He staggered sideways, his ears ringing. Meadows walked into him then and slugged two wicked underhand punches into the gunman's body. Passman sagged and went down, landing on his knees.

Tandy jerked him erect, struck him again in the stomach, and ignoring the futile punches the man threw, stepped back and smashed him full in the mouth with a right. Passman went down again.