Guns Of the Timberlands (1955) (7 page)

Wat Williams was silent. For the first time he was beginning to see what they had encountered. They had been in fights before, but they fought to win and did win. Simmons was not of his stripe, but Simmons had been the front man for a lot of their trouble. Now Williams could see they had stepped into a world not of lumber camps, but a world of guns and gunfighters.

When Bert Garry was safely bedded down in Doc McClean's home, Shorty crawled stiffly into the saddle and started for the B-Bar. His jaw was swelling and he was discovering bruises he had not known he had, but he knew he must get through to the ranch. Clay Bell would want to know about this.

Simmons was pulling off his boots when Wat Williams found him. He was showing the bloody calks to the other lumberjacks. "We taught 'em!" he chuckled. "I sure greased the skids under that cow nurse!"

"We should have got the other one," Duval said.

Williams liked neither man. Some of it was in his tone when he spoke. "That's right. Now you've played hell."

They looked up at him. "The other one told me to tell you to start packin' a gun."

Simmons blinked. Slowly he put a boot down on the floor. "What would I want with a gun?"

"He said he would kill you on sight."

Simmons touched his tongue to his lips. A brutal thug, used to barroom brawls and sluggings, guns were something out of his consideration. A beating in an alley . . . a lead pipe or a cant-hook, but a gun? He drew off his other boot amid absolute silence.

Within a matter of hours the story of the fight in the Tinker House was told in every bunkhouse and prospect hole within fifty miles. Many men knew or had heard of Jud Devitt, and knew the thugs that made up his crew, men chosen as much for their ability to maim and destroy as for their ability in the timber.

Noble Wheeler heard the story with satisfaction. In this fight, as a not too innocent bystander, he stood to win no matter who lost. Knowing the way of war, he realized both sides would lose in the end. And that, he decided as he rubbed fat hands together, was exactly as he wanted it.

Morning dawned bright and clear, giving promise of a hot day. Lumberjacks this morning did not walk singly but in tight bunches of four or five men. That they held the town was obvious. There were thirty of them and all carried clubs.

The townspeople walked warily, doing their buying and hurrying off the street. Everyone waited to see what Clay Bell would do. From his big chair on the veranda of the Tinker House, Sam Tinker studied the groups of lumberjacks thoughtfully, and without pleasure.

It was going to be hot. Sam Tinker scowled and scratched the back of his neck. This was his town. He started it, he built it. And now he did not like what was happening. He found himself looking more and more toward Emigrant Gap, and waiting.

The day moved on with no sign of anyone from the B-Bar. The lumberjacks drank in the saloons, swaggered about town and traded coarse talk. Yet there was growing uneasiness. They had always won with Jud Devitt, and they were sure they would win again, but Shorty Jones' warning to Simmons had left its effect.

Jud Devitt, accompanied by Williams and Duval, had left town before daylight, headed for The Notch. It was a long and rugged ride over rough country. They were compelled to circle widely because The Notch lay almost directly opposite the town and across the mountains.

Before leaving town Devitt had sent three wires, one to Washington, one to the state capital, and one to the county seat. He would have the law on his side. Devitt was not worried about Garry, and whether the cowhand lived or died, he did not care. His death could always be passed off as a barroom brawl. But a lot could be done with that threat to kill.

Noble Wheeler had also been active. A year before Montana Brown had been implicated in a shooting at Weaver. Brown had undoubtedly been in the right, so the shooting had been passed over and forgotten. Now Wheeler started the wheels turning to reopen the case and have Brown arrested. That the man would be acquitted was unimportant. He would be out of action during the coming battle.

He sat back in his musty office in the bank and chuckled as he considered the situation. It was going his way--he could not lose.

Chapter
7

Clay Bell received Shorty's report in silence. The stocky cowhand had come immediately to the ranch house and he was still caked with dried blood and his eyes swollen almost shut. His wrist, although not broken, was badly injured and the arm all but useless. Of the twelve men on whom Clay counted, two were now out of action.

The hands crowded in. "What's next, Boss?" Montana was ready for trouble. "Do we go to town?"

"No."

He sat very quiet, listening to their angry protests until they quieted. He had expected trouble, but not this soon, and it gave him a new measure of Jud Devitt. The man was not one to waste time, nor to stop at killing.

"Hold it!" He lifted a hand. "The only way we can take care of this is to win the fight. If we lose now he will hound down every last one of us. Now we have him stopped here. What's his next move?"

"The Notch. He'll try The Notch."

"You're right, Hank, and I think he'll try it today. Now don't think I wouldn't like to go down to Tinker, but don't you believe he isn't expecting it. He's got at least thirty men in town. If we took everybody we'd still be outnumbered and we'd have to leave this place unguarded."

Montana Brown swore softly. "All right. What do we do? Sit on our hands?"

"We stand pat. We watch the Gap and The Notch." When they were gone, Clay got to his feet. "Hank, I'm going to town myself."

"Alone?"

"I want to see Wheeler. If we're going to have a war we'll need money."

When Hank followed the others, Clay walked to the edge of the veranda and looked down the valley. Devitt's men and teams were still waiting, just beyond the white marker.

Hank Rooney, Coffin, and Shorty would remain at the Gap. Shorty could still use his left hand, if need be.

Montana Brown and Rush Jackson had returned to The Notch. Two men could easily defend either place. Other hands were scouting or on lookout.

Point by point he considered the situation, trying to overlook nothing. There had been no word from Tibbott. That might mean nothing, and it might mean everything. Jud Devitt must have taken care to have a man in Washington, to try to get a grant of land or the right to log off Deep Creek. If he got such a right, a U. S. Marshal would enforce it.

All he could do now was sit tight and wait for Devitt to move. But he would need money. And he should hire more riders. He thought of Harvey and Kilbum, then dismissed the thought. The men were too bloody, had too many killings behind them. If it came to a court battle, the hiring of such men would stand against him.

Mounting the palouse, he took the trail to Deep Creek. It was cool and still and the spotted horse walked swiftly through the tall grass under the stately columns of the Douglas fir. They grew straight and tall, and the thought of seeing them cut gave him a pang. The destruction of such trees left nothing but desolation behind, for trees like that would take years to grow again; and so they would never grow again, for man in his haste would not allow them the years they would need to become so magnificent.

The grass rustled with the movement of the horse's hoofs. Far away an eagle cried, and somewhere he could hear water falling. The sound of wind in the tree tops was like the rushing of a distant train.

On his left Piety Mountain lifted, shouldering brutally against the sky. There were still streaks of snow in the cracks and hollow places where the sun had not yet reached. Here, away from the heat of the flatlands, it was utterly still, cool, restful.

Without thinking, he had turned his horse toward the headwaters of Deep Creek and the old Bullwinkle claim. There, too, was the ghost town of Cave Creek, deserted by all but pack rats and owls. Beyond the town, and beyond Quartz Mountain, was an old burro trail that would take him into Tinkersville from the opposite end of town.

Pausing at Cave Creek to water the palouse, he changed his plans. He would not slip quietly in and out of town. He would give them a treat. He would go right down the main drag in full sight of everyone. He would show them clearly where he stood, and that Devitt inspired him with no fear.

While the palouse rested, he wandered among the dilapidated buildings of the ghost town. Grass grew high in the streets and a pine had forced its way up through the porch of the saloon and stood twenty feet high. Some roofs had fallen in; most of the buildings were near collapse. Returning to his horse, he mounted and took to the burro trail.

It was no trail for the inexperienced. Steep, and in places almost washed away by torrential rains, it required a good mountain horse to descend it. Reaching the bottom, he hesitated long enough for a prolonged survey of the flatlands, then took to a wash and after that skirted hills to keep himself under cover.

At the head of the street he slowed his horse to a walk and, his right hand resting on his thigh, he walked it down the street, sitting straight in the saddle.

It was midafternoon and the sun lay like a curse upon the town. Clusters of men in laced boots, each with a club, stood stock-still and watched him come. On the steps of the Tinker House, Bob Tripp took his pipe from his mouth and stared. Old Sam Tinker chuckled fatly, and rubbed his palm on the polished arm of his chair.

Clay rode on through town until he drew up before Doc McClean's adobe.

McClean met him at the door. He was a tall old man with a shock of white hair and a mustache. "Clay! Glad you came in. This boy's in bad shape." Garry was unconscious and breathing hoarsely. His face was bandaged, but the little Bell could see was a ghastly gray. Clay put his hand on the cowboy's shoulder.

"It's all right, Bert," he said gently. "We're with you, all the way!"

As though he had sensed the touch or heard the low voice, the young rider stirred and turned his head.

Outside in the living room, McClean shook his head. "I can't say," he replied to Clay's question. "The boy's in mighty bad shape. He'll lose the sight of one eye and carry the scars to his dying day, but that's not the worst of it. He has five broken ribs and one punctured a lung. I'm doing what I can."

They talked a little longer, but at the door Doc McClean put a hand on Clay's arm. "Boy, I've got to tell you this. Somebody dug up that old killing of Monty's and they're getting out a warrant."

Devitt could not have known that without being tipped off. This was another evidence that he had local advice or aid.

"Take care of Garry, Doc. And don't let him worry. We'll make out."

Down the sunlit street stood dark groups of men, looking up the street toward him. The sun was hot and the air heavy with that sultry heat that so often precedes a storm.

They were waiting for him down there. Wryly, he considered the situation. It would solve a lot of problems for Devitt if he were put out of business, yet it was not in him to duck an issue, and the issue lay right down there among those gatherings of men.

If they should gang him, not a hand would be lifted in his aid, unless it was that of old Sam Tinker. He built a smoke, taking his time. At that, Tinker, old as he was, might be the best man in town.

First, he must talk to Noble Wheeler. He stepped into the saddle, and only then lighted his cigarette. He drew deep on the smoke and it tasted good. Mentally, he smiled at himself. He could feel that old steadiness inside him, that queer sort of calm he always felt when going into trouble. And he had known a lot of trouble. Perhaps more than any one of those men. Perhaps more than any dozen. It had not been like this that first day when the Comanches hit the wagon train when he was a youngster. Yet he had scored a hit with his first shot.

He walked his horse the fifty yards to the bank, the only moving thing along the street. He felt sweat trickle down his cheeks, felt the good feel of the horse between his knees, saw without turning his head the dark groups of men, one of them before the bank.

One of these men had a swollen jaw. It was Pete Simmons. Simmons stood almost in the doorway, but Clay could step around him. He had no intention of doing so. He stepped down from the horse and walked straight at Simmons, looking straight ahead. Simmons did not move. Bell walked on and Simmons held his ground until with one more step he would have walked right into him, and then Simmons gave ground. Bell went on into the bank. Noble Wheeler looked up from his desk, his fat face wreathed in smiles. "Howdy, Clay! Glad to see you!" Bell dropped into a chair and shoved his hat back on his head. Wheeler's vest was spotted and soiled, his cheeks unshaven.

The little office smelled musty and old, as if long unaired. The sunlight made a small rectangle of light upon the floor, and glinted from the brass cuspidor.

"Noble, I'm going to need some money to see me through."

Wheeler traced a design upon his desk with a stub of pencil. "You owe me a good bit, Clay," he said ponderously. "I'd like to help, but the way I see it, with Devitt taking your best range--"

"He isn't taking it."

Wheeler looked up out of his pale eyes. "Folks think he'll get it, Clay. He's got money and political influence. To tell you the truth, Clay, the bank can't risk it. Right now you're a mighty unsafe risk."