Running Irons (7 page)

“Was another one here,” he remarked, coming up with the same conclusions that Danny had earlier. “Smallish, not too heavy-built feller I’d say. Took out
pronto
when the shooting started, with somebody after him, both riding fast. Then the small feller come back later, cut free some calves and led the others off.”

“That’d be the ones they’d branded he took,” Jerome guessed.

“Maybe that other feller led Gooch so far he couldn’t find his way back to here,” Tommy put in.

“Could be,” admitted the rancher. “Only I can’t think of anybody round here as fits that description, smallish and light built. Can hardly believe that Sammy and Pike were stealing from me, nei
ther. Why Sammy was fixing to get his-self married to one of Ella Watson’s gals real soon.”

“Yeah,” Tommy said bitterly. “Sammy and Pike were my pards. They’d never steal from anybody, boss. Maybe they was trying to stop the cow thieves.”

“Maybe,” grunted Jerome. “Where’d they go last night, boy?”

“Into town. Sammy wanted to see his gal and Pike went along for the ride. I was fixing to go with them, only one of my mounts was needing tending.”

Danny listened to the conversation without asking any questions or making any comments. Above all else, he must not show too much knowledge of Caspar County affairs. A chance-passing drifter would be unlikely to know much about the situation and showing that he was acquainted with the affairs of the county would cause suspicion. So he kept quiet and listened, which had always been a good way to learn things one wanted to know.

“Let’s go into town,” the rancher suggested. “You’d best come along with us, Danny, the sheriff’ll want to see you.”

“Sure,” Danny agreed. “I was headed that way when I came on this lot.”

“I’d best take the running irons with me, Boss,” Lyle remarked.

“Do that Ed,” answered Jerome. “Only don’t let
on that Sammy and Pike were using them. I know their folks and they were good kids.”

The words increased Danny’s growing liking for Jerome. Some men would have started ranting about ingrates, or damning the cowhands as stinking, untrustworthy cow thieves and not giving a damn who knew that the youngsters had gone bad. From Jerome, Danny turned his attention to the younger of the hired men. Clearly Tommy was badly shaken by the death of his two friends. But did he possess any guilty knowledge of how they came to die? Maybe the youngster had an idea of the identity of the third cow thief. Or perhaps he was merely thinking that, but for a stroke of luck, it might be him lying by the fire.

Mounting their horses, the men rode out of the clearing, Lyle and Tommy leading the dead cowhands’ animals, each toting its stiff bundle. None of them spoke until they came out on to open land. Then the sight of the whirling vultures recalled what brought them together.

“How about those buzzards?” asked Danny.

“They’re on our way to Caspar, we’d best check,” Jerome answered. “Ed, go scout around and see if you can track down that third jasper. I’ll lead Sammy’s hoss in for you.”

“Yo!” replied the foreman and gave Danny a calculating glance. “I’ll look around real good.”

Much as he would have liked to accompany Lyle,
Danny restrained himself. He guessed that the foreman intended to check on his tracks also, making sure that he was what he pretended to be. Not that Danny blamed Lyle. Under similar circumstances he would have done the same; and Lyle could learn little enough by back-tracking Danny for a few miles.

While riding toward the cottonwood, Danny started to get an uneasy feeling that he could guess what they would find. So he did not feel unduly surprised when, from over two hundred yards distance, he saw a body lying beneath the spreading branches of the cottonwood.

“Another,” Jerome breathed. “Who the hell this time?”

A few seconds later Tommy supplied the answer. “It’s Bat Gooch. I recognize that hoss of his there.”

At thirty yards Jerome halted the party. “Hold the hosses here, Tommy. I don’t reckon Farley Simmonds’ll make much of it, but we’ll not muss up the sign in case he wants to come out.”

Leaving their horses, Danny and Jerome walked toward the bounty hunter’s body. Both kept their eyes on the ground, studying the sign and reading much the same conclusions from what they saw.

“Can you read sign, Danny?” asked the rancher.

“My pappy was a hunting man. Taught me to know whether a foot pointed forward or back.”

“Huh huh. Way I see it is that the feller Gooch was chasing got swept off his hoss by a branch.
Fell just here and Gooch left his hoss to come over to him. Only the other feller wasn’t hurt bad and started to throw lead. How d’you see it?”

“Just about the same,” replied Danny.

However, although he did not intend to mention it, Danny saw more; a whole heap more than the rancher’s description of what happened. First thing to strike Danny was the fact that Gooch’s gun lay in its holster. No man who knew sic ’em about gun fighting would approach a potentially dangerous enemy without taking the elementary precaution of drawing his gun. Certainly a man like Gooch would not fail to take so basic a piece of self-preservation. The second significant fact to Danny’s mind being the powder burning and blackening around the two bullet wounds in the body. Whoever shot Gooch had been close, real close. As the shooter appeared to have been lying on the ground, Gooch must have been bending; no, that would have put him too high to catch the burning effect of the other’s weapon’s muzzle blast. Which meant either the other had been allowed to rise, or that Gooch knelt by his killer’s side.

Only Gooch would never have allowed the other to rise, or knelt by the fallen cow thief’s side, without holding his gun and being sure he could shoot at the first wrong move. Gooch knew gun-fighting and had more sense than take such chances with any man under such circumstances.

And there, Danny figured, he had touched the answer to Gooch’s apparent folly. On approaching the fallen cow thief, Gooch would have not only held his gun but would most likely to have sent a bullet into the other just to make good and sure there was no danger to his bounty hunting hide—unless he saw something to make him figure he would not need such precautions.

Something that told him the shape on the ground be a woman, not a man.

Maybe Captain Murat’s information about the identity of the brains behind the Caspar County cow stealing had been correct after all!

C
ASPAR
C
ITY LOOKED LITTLE DIFFERENT, NOR HAD
any greater right to such a grandiloquent four letters after its name, than a hundred other such towns that existed on the Texas plains for the purpose of supplying the cowhands’ needs for fun and the basic necessities of life. It consisted of at most forty wooden, adobe, or a mixture of both, buildings scattered haphazardly along half a mile of wheel-rutted, hoof-churned dirt going by the title of Main Street. However, Caspar bore the supreme mark of solidarity and permanency which so many other towns lacked; a Wells Fargo stage station and telegraph office stood proudly on Main Street between the adobe county sher
iff’s office building and Ella Watson’s Cattle Queen saloon.

To Danny Fog’s way of thinking as he studied the town, those silvery telegraph wires contained a menace to his well-being in that they could be used to obtain information about him far more quickly than by using the mail services.

The coming of Danny’s party, each man leading a horse bearing a stiff, unnatural, yet easily recognizable burden, brought people from the various business premises along Main Street. Questions were tossed at Jerome, but for the most he ignored them, saving his story to be told to Sheriff Farley Simmonds.

Among others, some half-a-dozen women and a couple of men emerged from the batwing doors of the Cattle Queen, attracting Danny’s attention. At least one of the women caught his eye. Even without being told, he knew that black-haired, beautiful woman in the center of the group to be Ella Watson, female saloonkeeper and maybe the boss of the cow thieves plaguing Caspar County. No ordinary saloon-girl could afford such a stylish, fancy light blue gown; a garment more suited in cut and line to a high-class New Orleans bordello than in the saloon of a small Texas town. The dress did little to hide the fact that its wearer’s five-foot-seven figure would be something to see. Cut low in front, it showed off a
rich, full bosom, clung tightly to a slender waist, then spread out to eye-catchingly curved hips, although concealing the legs from view. Her face, beautiful yet imperious, carried a look of authority which none of the others showed and set her aside as one above the herd.

“That’s Ella Watson, runs the Cattle Queen,” Tommy confirmed, waving his hand to a small buxom, pretty and scared-faced blonde girl who stared in wide-eyed horror at the scene.

“You look like you could use a drink,” Danny replied. “Soon as we’ve seen the great siezer, we’ll go get one.”

“I can use it,” Tommy stated.

The great siezer, the cowhand’s disrespectful name for the county sheriff, was not in his office; having gone along to the Bon Ton Café with his deputy for a meal, according to one of the gathering crowd of onlookers. Throwing a glance at his two hands—he had hired Danny on the way into town—Jerome gave instructions.

“Go get that drink, but keep it to one or two at most. I’ll send word if Sheriff Farley wants you.”

Leaving Jerome to take care of the bodies. Danny and Tommy fastened their horses to the sheriff’s office hitching rail and then walked back toward the sturdy wooden front of the saloon. The little blonde girl came running from among her fellow workers, making for Tommy.

“What’s happened, Tommy?” she gasped. “Who—what——”

“Easy, Mousey,” Tommy answered gently, taking the girl by the arms. “Sammy and Pike ran into trouble.”

Danny studied the girl. Wide-eyed horror showed on her pretty, naïve face. She was a fluffy, shapely, if a mite buxom, little thing, wearing a short green dress, black stockings and high-heeled shoes. Maybe not too smart, she looked like she would be happy, merry and good company under normal conditions—and clearly Tommy regarded her as something extra special.

“They were in last night,” the girl said.

“Who with?” growled Tommy.

“Sammy was with Dora, but he left with just Pike,” answered the girl, turning curious eyes in Danny’s direction.

“Mousey, this’s Danny Forgrave,” Tommy introduced, taking the hint. “He’s come to ride for Bench J. Danny, meet Mousey, she’s my gal.”

“Howdy, ma’am,” Danny greeted.

“Call me ‘Mousey’,” she told him. “My real name’s Mildred, but I like Mousey better.”

“Then Mousey it is,” Danny replied.

At the same time as he spoke to the girl, Danny became aware that one of the men standing with Ella Watson studied him carefully. The man wore a low-crowned white Stetson shoved back on his head and
a scar ran across his skull just over the right ear, the hair growing white along its line and in contrast to the blackness of the rest. Standing around six foot, the man wore a black cutaway jacket, frilly-bosomed shirt under a fancy vest, black string tie and tight-legged white trousers. Instead of a gunbelt, the man had a silk sash around his waist, a pearl-handled Remington 1861 Army revolver thrust into the left side so as to be available to the right hand. Cold, hard eyes in a fairly handsome, swarthy face, took in every detail of Danny’s dress, with due emphasis on the way he wore his guns. For a moment the man stared, then whispered something in Ella Watson’s ear, bringing her eyes to Danny.

“Let’s go get that drink, Danny,” Tommy suggested. “Come on, Mousey, gal.”

Taking Mousey’s arm, Tommy escorted her into the saloon and Danny followed. Inside he studied the place with interest. For a small cow town, the Cattle Queen sure looked mighty elegant. There were tables and chairs around a dance space for use of the customers; chuck-a-luck, faro and blackjack layouts, the usual wheel-of-fortune stood against one wall. A long, fancy bar with a big mirror behind it offered a good selection of drinks and was presided over by a tall, burly man with side-whiskers and bay-rum slicked hair. The bartender nodded to the new arrivals as they came to the bar and laid aside the glass he had been polishing.

“What’ll it be?” he asked.

“Beer for me ’n’ Mousey,” answered Tommy. “How’s about you, Danny?”

“Same’ll do for me,
amigo,
” Danny replied.

“What’s all the fuss outside?” the bartender inquired as he poured the three beers with deft hands.

“We just brought in Sammy Howe, Pike Evans and Gooch,” Tommy explained.

“Whooee!” ejaculated the bartender. “What happened?”

“How the hell would I know?” snapped Tommy, the tensions of the day putting an edge into his voice.

A dull red flushed into the bartender’s cheeks at the words and his hand went under the counter toward his favorite bung-starter; a most handy tool with dealing with cowhands who forgot their menial position in life.

“I thought Gooch maybe——” he began.

“Thinking’s bad for a man,” Danny put in quietly. “Especially when you’re talking to a feller who’s just lost two good friends.”

Slowly the bartender turned his eyes to Danny’s face. Something in the young man’s level, gray-eyed stare caused the bartender to remove his hand from the bung-starter. Having a well-developed judgment of human nature, the bartender knew when to sit back and yell “calf rope,” so he backed
water. While he might get by bullying a youngster like Tommy, the bartender reckoned he had best not try any of his games with that tall, blond newcomer.

Then a feeling of relief came to the bartender as he watched the women stream back into his room. At the rear of the group walked Ella Watson and the fancy-dressed hardcase who found Danny so interesting outside. With backing like that, the bardog allowed he might be able to chill the blond Texan’s milk. However, he remembered that his boss did not go for rough stuff in the rooms, especially at so early an hour and when dealing with cold-sober and unoffending men.

“Feller seems tolerable took by you, Danny,” Tommy remarked, nodding to the mirror’s reflection. “Ain’t hardly took his eyes off you since you come near him.”

“It’s not often they get a feller as handsome as me around,” answered Danny, taking up his drink in his right hand. “Who is he?”

“Name of Ed Wren. They do say he’s real fast with his gun. He works here as boss dealer.”

The name did more than ring a bell for Danny, it started a whole danged set of chimes going. In fact, Danny knew more than a little about the gunhand called Ed Wren. Among other things, he knew where the man picked up that bullet scar across the side of his head. A couple of years back
Wren had hired out to prevent trail hands taking on to help drive the Rocking H herd to market. Trouble being that the Rocking H’s owner was kin to the Hardin, Fog and Blaze clan and so Dusty Fog rode to his kinsman’s aid. Dusty had been the first man Wren tried to forcibly dissuade. That white streak across the side of Wren’s skull told the attempt had not been successful.
^*

Not for a moment did Danny believe Wren had forgotten the incident. Which could account for the gunman’s interest in him on his arrival. Although taller than his elder brother, Danny’s facial resemblance had always been fairly marked. Even now Wren must be trying to decide if this be coincidence or if Danny was either the man who shot him, or kin of the man. Either way, Danny found he had a further piece of trouble he must watch for.

Although Ella Watson did not come to the bar, but stood talking with Wren and casting interested glances at Danny, the other girls swarmed forward, eager to hear the news. Tommy looked them over, apparently seeking for one particular face and not finding it.

“Where’s Dora?” he asked. “I’ve something to tell her.”

“She’s upstairs, taking a bath,” replied a buxom,
tough-looking brunette. “Was that young Sammy you brought in?”

“Yeah,” Tommy replied.

“What happened?” put in another girl excitedly. “Who shot him?”

Before Tommy could answer, the batwing doors swung open and a tall young man swaggered into the room. Danny studied the newcomer in the bar mirror, not liking what he saw even though the other wore a deputy sheriff’s badge. Unless the deputy possessed money of his own, he dressed a whole heap too well and fancy for a junior peace officer in a moderate-sized Texas county and not a rich county at that. From hat to boots, the deputy wore the rig of a cow-country dandy. If the truculent assurance on his sullenly handsome face, the cocky air about him, and the low hanging brace of ivory-handled 1860 Army Colts be anything to go on, he reckoned himself to have something extra special in his presence.

Crossing the room, the deputy halted behind the two cowhands and jerked his thumb contemptuously over his shoulder toward the door. A hard expression, or what he fondly imagined to be hard, came to his face as he snapped out an order.

“All right, cownurse. Un—The Sheriff wants you at his office
pronto!
”

Normally Danny would have obeyed a member of the county law and reserved his comments on
the other’s impolite mode of address until away from the view of the local citizens, so as not to weaken the other’s authority and standing in the community; but for once he did not. Aside from his dislike for the manner in which the deputy spoke, Danny had a part to play in Caspar County. He saw a good chance presented for him to establish his character before the woman who might possibly be behind the cow stealing in the county.

“I’ve not finished my drink yet,” he answered without turning.

Hearing the sniggers of the watching girls, the deputy scowled. He longed to have the kind of reputation which inspired fear, if not respect, in the hearts of all who saw him. So, wishing to grandstand before the girls, he made a mistake. Shooting out his left hand, he caught Danny by the arm and dropped his right hand to the butt of the off-side Colt.

While training as a deputy under his father, Danny was taught never to lay hands on or threaten a man and that he must only place his hand on the butt of his gun when the situation warranted drawing and using the weapon. To Danny’s way of thinking other law-enforcement officers should respect the same rule. He did not like the slit-eyed manner in which the deputy studied him, and pegged him as being the kind of
hawg-mean show-off who would gun down an unsuspecting man just to be able to claim he had made a kill.

So Danny did not aim to give the deputy a chance. Pivoting around, Danny threw the hand from his sleeve and tossed the remainder of his drink full into the deputy’s face. Caught unawares, the deputy took a hurried step to the rear, entangled his spurs and sat down hard on the floor. Although partially winded, the laughter of the watching girls drove the deputy to worse folly.

“Why, you——!” he began and clawed at the right-side Colt once more.

Instantly Danny drew his off-side gun and threw down on the deputy, his thumb cocking back the hammer and forefinger depressing the trigger as the Colt’s seven-and-a-half inch barrel slanted down into line on the deputy’s body. At the same moment Danny saw Ed Wren move. Give him due, the gunman had speed. The fancy Remington licked out of his sash in around three-quarters of a second—which explained how he came to fail against Dusty who could cut a good quarter of a second off that time. However, Wren could handle a gun faster than Danny and the young Ranger admitted the fact without shame.

“Drop it, cownurse!” Wren ordered.

“Don’t see how you can down me without I get to put lead into the deputy at the same time,
hom
bre,
” Danny answered, making no move to obey the man’s order.

Which statement was true enough. Even a head shot could not save the deputy from taking lead; in fact, one would ensure he did get a bullet in him. Danny held his Colt with the hammer drawn back and trigger depressed. No matter where the lead hit, should Wren shoot, the impact would cause Danny’s thumb to release the hammer. From then on the gun’s mechanical processes would automatically take over, firing the charge in the uppermost chamber of the cylinder and expelling a bullet through the barrel which lined on the deputy’s favorite stomach.

Rank fear etched itself on the deputy’s face as he remembered that Wren showed considerable interest in becoming a member of the sheriff’s staff on his arrival in town. However, Uncle Farley hired only one deputy and could not take on another, even one of Wren’s standing. The gunhand now had a remarkably good chance of creating a vacancy in the sheriff’s office by shooting the newcomer.