Guns Of the Timberlands (1955) (6 page)

Devitt's face was white. "I'll be damned if I--!"

"Move back." There was no comfort in Bell's expression. "Start now or I'll shoot every head of stock on my land. Get started."

Devitt waved a hand at his men. His face was stiff with fury. "Roll 'em back! Let him have his fun!" He turned on Bell. "You're piling up trouble for yourself!" he said. "I'll see--"

"Move!" Bell repeated. He pushed his horse forward, shouldering his appalousa against Devitt's horse.

Devitt hesitated, his face ugly and mottled; then, never taking his eyes from those of Bell, he backed up until across the line marked by the white boulder.

Promptly, and without a backward glance, Clay Bell swung his horse and cantered up the trail to the ranch house. Jud Devitt stared after him, swore bitterly, then turned his horse toward town. He did not speak to Colleen as they rode along.

He had come off the loser in his first meeting with Bell, but there would be another time . . . another time. . .

"Jud?"

"Oh . . . sorry, Colleen, I'm afraid I wasn't thinking. This mess irritates me."

"Why don't you leave it, Jud? Get the timber another place."

He smiled at her to cover his irritation. "You leave that to me, Colleen. It's my problem."

She rode beside him in silence. She could see he was determined. He was too stubborn to leave now.

"Jud--he'll fight."

"Of course."

"Men will be killed. Doesn't that matter to you?"

"It matters, of course it matters. But one man can't stand in the way of progress. That railroad must go through!"

"You could get the ties elsewhere."

"At greater expense. At greater loss of time. They are here, I mean to have them."

He was scarcely aware of her protests. Already his mind was leaping ahead, trying to find some way to get around this trouble. There might be another route to the Deep Creek range, to both the valley and the plateau. He must talk to Wheeler.

Colleen maintained her silence. The air was cooler now, as they neared town. Dipping down to where the trail ran along the creek, she felt the breeze off the stream, and from the desert willows. She slowed her pace, remembering Clay.

His features were clear-cut, brown from sun and wind. There was something, too, in the way he walked . . . and she had noticed what had impressed Jud Devitt. Clay Bell had not been worried at the thought of trouble. He had wasted no words, indulged in no violent talk. Yet he had won--he had forced Jud Devitt to back up.

And Jud Devitt would never forgive him.

Chapter
6

Jud Devttt found Noble Wheeler in the dining room of the Tinker House. He drew back a chair and dropped into it, coldly furious. "Noble, why didn't you tell me that Clay Bell owned Emigrant Gap?"

Noble Wheeler gripped his fork tightly in one hand, his knife in the other, both big fists resting on the table-top, his big jaws chomping his food like a restless horse over a cold bit. There was no denying the astonishment in his eyes. "What? Did you say owned?"

He put a chunk of beef in his mouth, staring blankly at his plate. Bell owned Emigrant Gap! But that. . .

"He claims he has title to it. Refuses me right-of-way."

"Never guessed he'd be that smart." Wheeler was thinking now. This could change everything, ruin his carefully laid plans. "Changes a lot of things."

"Is there another way up?"

"Through The Notch. T'other side of the plateau."

"Does he own that?" Devitt was sarcastic.

"Maybe. We'll find out."

Devitt pushed back his chair and waved the waitress away. "I'm wiring Chase. If we get our grant on that timber we can force him to give us right-of-way."

"And if you don't?"

Devitt's lips thinned and his eyes looked their dislike at Wheeler. "I'll go in, anyway. No damned cowhand will stop me!"

He did not, Devitt decided, like Wheeler. But he did not have to like him. The banker was tough and shrewd; he had something cooking in his mind that Devitt had not been told. He watched the fat man chomp his food. He was a noisy eater, a glutton. Devitt got up, distaste suddenly sharp within him. Without a word he walked away from the table and went outside. Suppose he did not get the grant? Then he would have no legal ground under him at all. Yet Bell's cattle would have to be worked, and he could not keep all his men on guard all the time. There might be still a third way into the Deep Creek area. His thoughts reverted to the grant. He could not back out now, he would not. Grant or no grant, he would have that timber. With Bell busy, there would be a way to get at him. Once they had the timber it wouldn't matter.

He lit a cigar and considered the situation. Cripple Bell. Stop him cold. That was the first thing. It was to be an all-out fight then.

Wheeler's astonishment at the discovery of Bell's ownership had been genuine. Yet there had been something more. Devitt rolled his cigar in his jaws. What did the banker have up his sleeve? Something . . . but what? Jud Devitt had a feeling he was being used as a cat's-paw, and it was a feeling he did not like.

Bob Tripp came up the street, pausing briefly in the door of a saloon across the street. Jud stepped to the edge of the walk.

"Bob! Oh, Bob!"

Tripp turned, trying to locate the voice. Devitt called again.

"Come over! Got something for you!"

Tripp crossed the street and stepped up on the walk. "Looks like a fight, Mr. Devitt," he said. "The boys ain't happy out there, either."

"How many of them are in town? There must be thirty or more."

"About that. What's on your mind?"

"Some of those B-Bar riders will be in town. If a few fights start and some of those boys get hurt, I wouldn't mind at all."

Tripp touched a match to his pipe. "In other words, you want the boys to bust them up? All right, our boys are set for trouble, anyway. What if some of our men are hurt?"

"Pay all the time while recovering. A bonus if Bell gets laid up himself."

Tripp listened, drawing on his pipe. Sometimes he did not like Jud Devitt, but he could find no better job, and no better pay. Besides, there was always action, and he liked action. And one thing you could say for Jud--he never shied at a fight himself.

"Seen Stag Harvey or Jack Kilburn?"

"Who are they?"

"Gunmen--paid warriors. They're not doing anything right now."

Jud Devitt looked at the end of his cigar. Killers, then. Yes, that might come. It was to be avoided if possible, but the treatment from Bell rankled, and that the man would shoot he did not doubt. All right then, if they wanted it that way . . . He was going to have that timber.

'Tell them to stick around town, but don't make any promises." He took a couple of gold pieces from his vest pocket. "Give this to them. With my compliments, but don't make any promises."

A couple of weary riders came up the street. The two men slumped in their saddles, dusty and tired. Both rode gray horses, both had B-Bar brands.

"There's a pair of Bell's boys now. I want him short-handed, Bob."

Tripp took the pipe from his mouth and knocked it out on the awning post. "All right," he said, and stepped off the porch and started across the street.

This was a job for Frenchy Duval and Pious Pete Simmons. They would like this. Both men were big, tough, and known as rough and dirty fighters. Devitt kept them on the pay roll for jobs like this.

Tripp walked along the street, studying the other horses at the hitch rails. None were B-Bar brands. Two men . . . and Bell was reported to have but twelve.

Shorty Jones and Bert Garry had been away from the ranch for fifteen days. Shorty, blond and pink-cheeked, almost as wide as he was tall, blinked against the light in the saloon. Men who rode with him said that Shorty was as tough as a winter on the Black Rock Desert. Bert Garry was nineteen, a lanky youngster, but game.

Shorty took the bottle and poured a drink. He tossed it off, then stood, still holding the bottle while the fiery liquor burned through him. He glanced around at the few men in the saloon.

All were unfamiliar faces. It was early for the usual night crowd, and none of the B-Bar boys were around.

"Jacks," Garry said, low-voiced, "timber beasts. I wonder what's up?"

Shorty filled his glass. "Only timber around here is on Deep Creek, and . . ." His voice trailed off. He thought fast, then dropped a hand on Bert's wrist. "Lay off the whiskey. We're in trouble!"

"What?" Garry looked around, his eyes still red-rimmed from heat and dust. His eyes followed Shorty's warning glance.

Two men had stepped to the bar on each side of the two cowhands. Two more had moved up closer along the bar. All were big, all looked tough.

"Watch it!" Shorty repeated.

Bert Garry was young but he had been over the trail. What was coming he could guess, but he did not know why.

Jones did not lift his eyes from his glass. He spoke just loud enough for Garry to hear. "The only timber is on Deep Creek. The boss wouldn't let no man cut logs up there. We'd better get out of here."

"We'll finish our drinks," Bert said stubbornly.

The lumberjack next to Bert bumped hard against him. Before Garry could turn to speak, Jones caught his arm. He whispered quickly, and Bert Garry caught the idea. Together, muscles poised, they waited. The lumberjacks on either side gathered themselves for a hard lunge at the two cowboys and the one called Frenchy dropped his right shoulder preparatory to driving into Jones. Instantly, Shorty caught Bert's arm and they both stepped back.

It was too late for Duval to catch himself and the sudden disappearance of the cowhand shot his weight into the empty space, where he met Pete Simmons, lunging from the other side. Their bodies smashed together and Simmons' feet left the floor and he sat down hard. Bert Garry laughed.

Simmons came off the floor with a lunge. "Laughin' at me, cowhand?"

"I reckon. You looked almighty funny, fallin' like that. I always heard a timber beast was fast on his feet."

"I'm fast enough on mine." Simmons stepped closer. "I can tear down your meathouse, cowboy."

Several other lumberjacks had moved in, forming a tight ring around the two. Shorty Jones dropped his hand to his gun, but a lumberjack nailed his wrist with a huge hand.

Shorty's only idea had been to back them off so they could walk out unmolested, but this he could never have explained. He jerked his wrist free and swung hard. And in the same instant three men swung on him. The battle was short, desperate, futile. Outnumbered four to one, the two B-Bar men were beaten brutally, then thrown into the street. They hit hard and rolled over. Bert Garry came up, choking on blood and dust, almost in tears. With a lunge he started for the door. "Bert!" Shorty yelled. "Wait!"

Garry went through the door with a lunge and the first man he saw was Pious Pete Simmons. He swung from the hip and the blow caught the surprised lumberjack in the mouth and knocked him sprawling. Bert Garry had lost all reason. Set upon by total strangers, for what reason he had no idea, he had been beaten unfairly by a crowd of men. Now he thought of nothing but getting a little of his own back and he went into the fray with a rush.

As Simmons went down another jack sprang at Bert but, battered as he was, Garry was set and he knocked the man rolling under a table. Then he grabbed chair and waded into the crowd.

There could be but one end to such a battle, and Simmons, beside himself with fury, came off the floor and sprang on Garry's back. Out in the street Shorty Jones staggered to his feet. One arm hung useless and his eyes were closed to mere slits, but he started for the door.

He burst through the door just in time to hear an agonized scream and to see Simmons jump high in the air and come down, calks and all, on Bert Garry's face!

The cowhand screamed and tried to get up. Brutally, Simmons kicked him. Wat Williams grabbed Simmons. "Pete! Stop it! You'll kill the kid!"

Shorty dropped beside Garry. The boy's face was a mask of blood and he breathed with great gasps.

The lumberjacks had vanished, and Shorty Jones looked up to see Pious Pete Simmons leaving through the front door. "I'll see you!" The puncher was hoarse with anger. "I'll see you again!"

Wat Williams dropped on his knees beside the boy. "We'd better get this kid to the doctor. Simmons jumped on his belly, too."

"I'll get Doc McClean!" the bartender said, ducking out the door into the street.

Jones put his folded jacket under Garry's head, then looked up at Williams.

"What's this all about?"

"You don't know?" Williams sat back on his heels. "You ride for the B-Bar?"

"Sure. But we just rode in from Santa Fe. We never heard of no trouble."

Williams explained, then added, "This eye I got. Your boss gave it to me."

"Fightin's one thing. This here's another." Shorty Jones looked up at Williams and his eyes were utterly cold. "Tell Simmons to start packin' a gun. I'm goin' to kill him."