The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume 2 (56 page)

Tack reached across the bar, his hand shooting out so fast the bartender had no chance to withdraw. Catching the man by his stiff collar, two fingers inside the collar and their knuckles jammed hard into the man's Adam's apple, he jerked him to the bar.

“Pour!” he said.

The man tried to speak, but Tack gripped harder and shoved back on the knuckles. Weakly, desperately, his face turning blue, the man poured. He slopped out twice what he got in the glass, but he poured. Then Tack shoved hard and the man brought up violently against the backbar.

Tack lifted his glass with his left hand, his eyes sweeping the crowd, all of whom had drawn back slightly. “To honest ranchers!” he said loudly and clearly and downed his drink.

A big, hard-faced man shoved through the crowd. “Maybe yuh're meanin' some of us ain't honest?” he suggested.

“That's right!” Tack Gentry let his voice ring out in the room, and he heard the rattle of chips cease, and the shuffling of feet died away. The crowd was listening. “That's exactly right! There were honest men here, but they were murdered or crippled. My Uncle John Gentry was murdered. They tried to make it look like a fair and square killin' —they stuck a gun in his hand!”

“That's right!” A man broke in. “He had a gun! I seen it!”

Tack's eyes shifted. “What hand was it in?”

“His right hand!” the man stated positively, belligerently. “I seen it!”

“Thank you, pardner!” Tack said politely. “The gun was in John Gentry's right hand—and John Gentry's right hand had been paralyzed ever since Shiloh!”

“Huh?” The man who had seen the gun stepped back, his face whitening a little.

Somebody back in the crowd shouted out, “That's right! You're durn tootin' that's right! Never could use a rope, ‘count of it!”

Tack looked around at the crowd, and his eyes halted on the big man. He was going to break the power of Hardin, Olney, and Soderman, and he was going to start right here.

“There's goin' to be an investigation,” he said loudly, “and it'll begin down in Austin. Any of you fellers bought property from Hardin or Olney better get your money back.”

“Yuh're talkin' a lot!” The big man thrust toward him, his wide, heavy shoulders looking broad enough for two men. “Yuh said some of us were thieves!”

“Thieves and murderers,” Tack added. “If yuh're one of the worms that crawl in Hardin's tracks, that goes for you!”

The big man lunged. “Get him, Starr!” somebody shouted loudly.

         

Tack Gentry suddenly felt a fierce surge of pure animal joy. He stepped back and then stepped in suddenly, and his right swung low and hard. It caught Starr as he was coming in, caught him in the pit of the stomach. He grunted and stopped dead in his tracks, but Tack set himself and swung wickedly with both hands. His left smashed into Starr's mouth, and his right split a cut over his cheekbone. Starr staggered and fell back into the crowd. He came out of the crowd, shook his head, and charged like a bull.

Tack weaved inside of the swinging fists and impaled the bigger man on a straight, hard left hand. Then he crossed a wicked right to the cut cheek, and gore cascaded down the man's face. Tack stepped in, smashing both hands to the man's body, and then as Starr stabbed a thumb at his eye, Tack jerked his head aside and butted Starr in the face.

His nose broken, his cheek laid open to the bone, Starr staggered back, and Tack Gentry walked in, swinging with both hands. This was the beginning. This man worked for Hardin and he was going to be an example. When he left this room Starr's face was going to be a sample of the crashing of Van Hardin's power. With left and right he cut and slashed at the big man's face, and Starr, overwhelmed by the attack, helpless after that first wicked body blow, crumpled under those smashing fists. He hit the floor suddenly and lay there, moaning softly.

A man shoved through the crowd, and then stopped. It was Van Hardin. He looked down at the man on the floor; then his eyes, dark with hate, lifted to meet Tack Gentry's eyes.

“Lookin' for trouble, are yuh?” he said.

“Only catchin' up with some that started while I was gone, Van!” Tack said. He felt good. He was on the balls of his feet and ready. He had liked the jarring of blows, liked the feeling of combat. He was ready. “Yuh should have made sure I was dead, Hardin, before yuh tried to steal property from a kindly old man!”

“Nothing was stolen,” Van Hardin said evenly, calmly. “We took only what was ours, and in a strictly legal manner.”

“There will be an investigation,” Gentry replied bluntly, “from Austin. Then we'll thrash the whole thing out.”

Hardin's eyes sharpened and he was suddenly wary. “An investigation? What makes you think so?”

Tack was aware that Hardin was worried. “Because I'm startin' it. I'm askin' for it, and I'll get it. There was a lot you didn't know about that land yuh stole, Hardin. Yuh were like most crooks. Yuh could only see yore side of the question and it looked very simple and easy, but there's always the thing yuh overlook, and
you
overlooked somethin'!”

The doors swung wide and Olney pushed into the room. He stopped, glancing from Hardin to Gentry. “What goes on here?” he demanded.

“Gentry is accusin' us of bein' thieves,” Hardin said carelessly.

Olney turned and faced Tack. “He's in no position to accuse anybody of anything!” he said. “I'm arrestin' him for murder!”

There was a stir in the room, and Tack Gentry felt the sudden sickness of fear. “Murder? Are yuh crazy?” he demanded.

“I'm not, but you may be,” the sheriff said. “I've just come from the office of Anson Childe. He's been murdered. Yuh were his last visitor. Yuh were observed sneaking into his place by the back stairs. Yuh were observed sneaking out of it. I'm arresting yuh for murder.”

The room was suddenly still, and Tack Gentry felt the rise of hostility toward him. Many men had admired the courage of Anson Childe; many men had been helped by him. Frightened themselves, they had enjoyed his flouting of Hardin and Olney. Now he was dead, murdered.

“Childe was my friend!” Tack protested. “He was goin' to Austin for me!”

Hardin laughed sarcastically. “Yuh mean he knew yuh had no case and refused to go, and in a fit of rage, yuh killed him. Yuh shot him.”

“Yuh'll have to come with me,” Olney said grimly. “Yuh'll get a fair trial.”

Silently, Tack looked at him. Swiftly, thoughts raced through his mind. There was no chance for escape. The crowd was too thick, and he had no idea if there was a horse out front, although there no doubt was, and his own horse was in the livery stable. Olney relieved him of his gun belt and they started toward the door. Starr, leaning against the doorpost, his face raw as chewed beef, glared at him evilly.

“I'll be seein' yuh!” he said softly. “Soon!”

         

Soderman and Hardin had fallen in around him, and behind them were two of Hardin's roughs.

The jail was small, just four cells and an outer office. The door of one of the cells was opened and he was shoved inside. Hardin grinned at him. “This should settle the matter for Austin,” he said. “Childe had friends down there!”

Anson Childe murdered! Tack Gentry, numbed by the blow, stared at the stone wall. He had counted on Childe, counted on his stirring up an investigation. Once an investigation was started, he possessed two aces in the hole he could use to defeat Hardin in court, but it demanded a court uncontrolled by Hardin.

With Childe's death he had no friends on the outside. Betty had barely spoken to him when they met, and if she was going to work for Hardin in his dance hall, she must have changed much. Bill London was a cripple and unable to get around. Red Furness, for all his friendship, wouldn't come out in the open. Tack had no illusions about the murder. By the time the case came to trial, they would have found ample evidence. They had his guns and they could fire two or three shots from them, whatever had been used on Childe. It would be a simple thing to frame him. Hardin would have no trouble in finding witnesses.

He was standing, staring out the small window, its lower sill just on the level of his eyes, when he heard a distant rumble of thunder and a jagged streak of lightning brightened the sky, followed by more thunder. The rains came slowly, softly, and then in steadily increasing volume. The jail was still and empty. Sounds of music and occasional shouts sounded from the Longhorn; then the roar of rain drowned them out. He threw himself down on the cot in the corner of the room, and lulled by the falling rain, was soon asleep.

A long time later, he awakened. The rain was still falling, but above it was another sound. Listening, he suddenly realized what it was. The dry wash behind the town was running, probably bank full. Lying there in the darkness, he became aware of still another sound, of the nearer rushing of water. Lifting his head, he listened. Then he got to his feet and crossed the small cell.

Water was running under the corner of the jail. There had been a good deal of rain lately, and he had noted that the barrel at the corner of the jail had been full. It was overflowing, and the water had evidently washed under the corner of the building.

He walked back and sat down on the bed, and as he listened to the water, an idea came to him suddenly. Tack got up and went to the corner of the cell. Striking a match, he studied the wall and floor. Both were damp. He stamped on the stone flags of the floor, but they were solid. He kicked at the wall. It was also solid.

How thick were those walls? Judging by what he remembered of the door, the walls were all of eight inches thick, but how about the floor? Kneeling on the floor, he struck another match, studying the mortar around the corner flagstone.

Then he felt in his pockets. There was nothing there he could use to dig that mortar. His pocket knife, his bowie knife, his keys—all were gone. Suddenly, he had an inspiration. Slipping off his wide leather belt, he began to dig at the mortar with the edge of his heavy brass belt buckle.

The mortar was damp, but he worked steadily. His hands slipped on the sweaty buckle and he skinned his fingers and knuckles on the rough stone floor, yet he persevered, scraping, scratching, digging out tiny fragments of mortar. From time to time he straightened up and stamped on the stone. It was solid as Gibraltar.

Five hours he scraped and scratched, digging until his belt buckle was no longer of use. He had scraped out almost two inches of mortar. Sweeping up the scattered grains of mortar, and digging some of the mud off his boots, he filled in the cracks as best he could. Then he walked to his bunk and sprawled out and was instantly asleep.

         

Early in the morning, he heard someone stirring around outside. Then Olney walked back to his cell and looked in at him. Starr followed in a few minutes, carrying a plate of food and a pot of coffee. His face was badly bruised and swollen, and his eyes were hot with hate. He put the food down, and then walked away. Olney loitered.

“Gentry,” he said suddenly, “I hate to see a good hand in this spot.”

Tack looked up. “I'll bet yuh do!” he said sarcastically.

“No use takin' that attitude,” Olney protested, “after all, yuh made trouble for us. Why couldn't yuh leave well enough alone? Yuh were in the clear, yuh had a few dollars apparently, and yuh could do all right. Hardin took possession of those ranches legally. He can hold 'em, too.”

“We'll see.”

“No, I mean it. He can. Why don't yuh drop the whole thing?”

“Drop it?” Tack laughed. “How can I drop it? I'm in jail for murder now, and yuh know as well as I do I never killed Anson Childe. This trial will smoke the whole story out of its hole. I mean to see that it does.”

Olney winced, and Tack could see he had touched a tender spot. That was what they were afraid of. They had him now, but they didn't want him. They wanted nothing so much as to be completely rid of him.

“Only make trouble for folks,” Olney protested. “Yuh won't get nowhere. Yuh can bet that if yuh go to trial we'll have all the evidence we need.”

“Sure. I know I'll be framed.”

“What can yuh expect?” Olney shrugged. “Yuh're askin' for it. Why don't yuh play smart? If yuh'd leave the country we could sort of arrange maybe to turn yuh loose.”

Tack looked up at him. “Yuh mean that?” Like blazes, he told himself. I can see yuh turnin' me loose! And when I walked out yuh'd have somebody there to smoke me down, shot escaping jail. Yeah, I know. “If I thought yuh'd let me go—” he hesitated, angling to get Olney's reaction.

The sheriff put his head close to the bars. “Yuh know me, Tack,” he whispered. “I don't want to see you stick yore head in a noose! Sure, yuh spoke out of turn, and yuh tried to scare up trouble for us, but if yuh'd leave, I think I could arrange it.”

“Just give me the chance,” Tack assured him. “Once I get out of here I'll really start movin'!” And that's no lie, he added to himself.

Olney went away, and the morning dragged slowly. They would let him go. He was praying now they would wait until the next day. Yet even if they did permit him to escape, even if they did not have him shot as he was leaving, what could he do? Childe, his best means of assistance, was dead. At every turn he was stopped. They had the law, and they had the guns.

His talk the night before would have implanted doubts. His whipping of Starr would have pleased many, and some of them would realize that his arrest for the murder of Childe was a frame. Yet none of these people would do anything about it without leadership. None of them wanted his neck in a noose.

Olney dropped in later and leaned close to the bars. “I'll have something arranged by tomorrow,” he said.

Tack lay back on the bunk and fell asleep. All day the rain had continued without interruption except for a few minutes at a time. The hills would be soggy now, the trails bad. He could hear the wash running strongly, running like a river not thirty yards behind the jail.