Читать книгу Dead Man Range - Ernest Haycox - Страница 4

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AT the northeast corner of the plaza stood Madame LeSeur's house, which was all that Casabella could claim in the line of hotel, eating place and rendezvous for social affairs. Madame was a stout square woman with traces of former beauty, and a witty, sharp-tongued kindness. It was common belief that in earlier days she had been the toast of a dance hall in far off Deadwood, a belief she neither confirmed nor denied. Not that it mattered here, for Casabella implicitly believed anybody's past was his or her own affair. All it positively knew was that Madame LeSeur had drifted into Angels, built this ramshackle place with a three-sided porch, divided the second story into innumerable cubicles for sleeping purposes, and arranged the downstairs into kitchen, dining room and a vast lobby with crystal chandeliers.

According to Madame's own statement, the bedrooms were of two kinds. Those large enough for a horse to turn around in were "double" and worth fifty cents the sleep. Those too narrow to pass the horse-turning test were "singles" at two bits the throw. Many a puncher, whose last alcoholic remembrance had been of slumping into the watering trough of the plaza, had wakened in one of Madame's rooms, charitably housed by her orders. To all such gentlemen's embarrassed thanks she invariably retorted that business was business and she had to fill up her house one way or another; and the bill would be a quarter-dollar, if you please, with no charge for cartage.

The lobby had been the scene of famous events, and today another was in the making. For in this lobby were gathered men, ranchers and townsmen, bent on threshing out a question never yet solved in Casabella—the question of peace.

Some were seated at the big round table. Buck Manners was in his chair, seesawing it on the back legs. Buck was the slim and smiling man Clint Charterhouse had seen crossing the plaza a few minutes earlier. He was seated and still showed a good-natured expression, even though the single flip of a phrase threatened to turn the town into a blaze of war. Sheriff Drop Wolfert was seated, too. His hands were lying flat on the table's surface, and his narrowed, sulky eyes were following around from man to man. Never amiable, his temper was further inflamed this afternoon from knowing that his authority was scornfully questioned and his motives doubted. Beef Graney sat next to the sheriff. Beef was a figure with a few dubious acres of range and a small scattering of stock. He was slyly keeping his eyes down. There was no mistaking the ruddy bull-dog of a man who dominated the meeting. John Nickum was of the Western type that produced the great cattle kings. Even now when the middle fifties had fleshed up his big bones and shot his hair with gray, there still remained the chill blue directness of his eyes that signaled relentless personal courage. Kindly, jovial, never forsaking a friend nor committing deliberate meanness, he possessed all the old baronial virtues.

His faults sprang from the same source. He had fought too hard in his life to forgive an enemy; to them he was ruthless. For him there was no middle ground, no mellowed tolerance. The qualities of the land itself were in him, and he could not change. He had seen good men fall and the lesson of their lives had stiffened his own rugged back. Piece by piece the great Box M had been wrung from his sweat and scheming; every step of the way he had been harried by the inevitable outlaws who snapped at his flanks. Blow for blow he had fought them without pity; now that his power was again being undermined he placed his back to the wall and roared his challenge.

"I am able to take care of my own quarrels," he said stiffly. "Nevertheless, I called you here to tell you and warn you that a pack of yellow hounds are building up their machine to wreck me. If they succeed, they will wreck you as well. I have cleaned up more than one magpie's nest in my time. I have the power still to do it."

"Fine talk," broke in Shander, another powerful rancher, pressing the words between his thin lips. "Since you are all wound up, suppose you mention some names? Who are these yellow dogs you mention?"

Old John Nickum's cold glance struck Shander. "I will take my own pleasure about that," said he.

"You take your own pleasure about a great many things," snapped Shander. "Too many things, if you ask me. Big as your damned outfit is, I am not afraid to stand up and speak my piece. Every man in this room understands who you are talking against. I'll just challenge you to state a few facts."

Both Sheriff Wolfert and Beef Graney lifted their heads in seeming assent, though Wolfert immediately covered his expression and tried to look neutral. Buck Manners laughed softly at him.

"So—facts?" muttered Nickum. "Here is one fact. Casabella's got a large floating population in the last few months that lifts no single hand in honest labor. You know what that means as well as I do. Take a count of Curly's outfit right now and you'd find it shot with the worst thieves and knife artists along the Border. I can go out to the street and point out six of his damned crew snoozing in the shade. I once was easy on him, and now he's the coldest leader of hired killers ever forked saddle in this country."

"Lay that to Casabella's salubrious climate," said Shander with evident sarcasm. "Can't deny any man's right to jump a county line for safety, can you? Since when have you got so moral, anyhow? I'm prepared to say you've got riders in your own outfit whose pasts won't bear daylight. Who cares?"

"I will state another fact," went on old John Nickum, sweeping Shander's words aside. "On this very day we have a meeting, Angels is crowded with these last run of shad, armed to the teeth. What brings 'em here so suddenly?"

"Promise of excitement," retorted Shander. "What brought all your riders in?"

"Promise of excitement, eh? Promise of pay—promise of killings. Somebody is drumming up another mess of grief. I have cut my eye teeth, Shander. I know the signs as well as any man."

Shander's thin frame trembled. "By gosh, Nickum, I challenge you to name names. You are dragging a wide loop, and I'm warning it will snag you out of the saddle before long!"

"Oh, come," broke in Buck Manners easily. "This is getting rather stiff. Let's take another turn around the snubbing post and go slower. No need for you gentlemen to fight about it. Let's be reasonably calm."

But John Nickum ploughed doggedly ahead. He veered on Sheriff Wolfert. "Drop, you ain't blind, are you? You see Curly's riders floating through Angels, don't you. What in hell are you wearing a star for?"

Sheriff Wolfert grumbled morosely, "What of it? I got no bench warrants for any of Curly's men. I can't arrest nobody on plain suspicion. I got a warrant for Curly, but he's the only one of the gang I could legally arrest—if he showed his nose. Even so, what jury would hook Curly, or any of the rest? Man's got to use judgment in these things, Nickum. If I go throwing all suspicious folks in the calaboose, I'll be finding myself out in the mesquite some fine day."

"Great talk!" scouted Nickum. "You'd better put that star on your undershirt so folks won't see it. I'll tell you now, Wolfert, this is your last term in the office."

Wolfert flared up. "Oh, I don't know about that!" But both Graney and Shander looked at him so sharply that he stopped talking and sank back into the same morose silence. Everybody in the room caught that scene. Buck Manners' attention went up swiftly to the withdrawn Nero Studd and watched him momentarily. Nickum boomed on. "I have got something else to say to you, Wolfert. When my son was ambushed and killed in Red Draw, what did you do? You never moved out of your chair for two days. What have you done since? Nothing! Am I to believe you are making a tolerable effort to earn your money? I understand all about the petty graft you take and I am not kicking about it. But when you refuse to lift a hand to help Box M, I am forced to conclude that you got your fingers in a bigger kettle."

"Who said so?" yelled Wolfert, half rising. "Who give you license to call me thataway? Hell, I've worn my horses' shoes to paper in that damn country! If you want to know, I can't find a smell of a clue regarding who shot your son! I made an effort. Don't say I didn't. It's unfriendly for you to say I'm hooked up in any way with that affair. If I got to be blunt, Nickum, you talk to folks like they was school boys. It doesn't set straight. You hadn't ought to try to run other men's businesses for 'em. I'm able to handle my job."

"The great man," was Shander's cutting interjection, "doesn't forget he is the king-pin of Casabella. And the great man hasn't named any names yet."

But old John Nickum had straightened. He looked from the sheriff to Graney to Shander and on over to Nero Studd. "I am not crying about my loss," said he, even and cold. "I paid my just debts for fifty-eight years. I will continue to pay them—and to collect them. I was weaned on outlaws and crooked politics. I see what is going on here. I see another bright idea to hamstring Box M. It's been tried before by damned fools who think they got some original sure-thing racket. I say this, too. If those gentlemen who believe they can put me on the run want war, they shall have war!"

Buck Manners frowned. "Think it over. We ought to be able to settle this without recourse to shooting."

"Never mind, Buck," grunted Nickum. "I'm playing my hand."

"Not altogether," said Manners gently. "Remember the Manners family has strung along on your side for thirty good years and I expect to carry on my father's habits. I believe as you do, but I want to be sure we can't settle this peaceably."

"I haven't asked you to come in," was Nickum's short answer.

"No, but I'll be there with my outfit," Manners retorted.

Shander was grimly smiling. "After you, Alphonse. Virtue sure does drip over. I ain't heard any names mentioned yet."

"Were I you," said Manners coldly, "I'd take advantage of a pretty broad hint."

"Meaning what?" challenged Shander.

"Meaning this," said Nickum, taking up the thread. "The Box M draws a deadline today at its south limit, from Red Draw to Dead Man's Range. Any rider caught across that line will explain himself clearly or take the consequences."

"Answering for myself," said Shander, violently angered, "I never have had any desire to ride on your damned range and haven't now. Since you have been aiming your shots at me during this powwow, I want to say you can expect no further friendliness from myself or my men. I object to your insinuations. I hope Curly rustles you poor, curse you if I don't! Keep your riders off my range! I won't stand good for their safety from this day. And if you have any business with me, do it through a third party."

"I am glad to know," said Nickum formally, "you are willing to put yourself that far in the open. I detest a man concealing his state of mind."

"You're going too far, Nickum!"

"Meeting's adjourned," broke in Buck Manners and rose to place himself between the two men. "I guess we know where we stand. As for me, I string with Nickum any time, anywhere. I'd hate to see a range war, but I'll take care of my share of it when it comes."

"Listen," said Sheriff Wolfert, "you men are making it awful hard on me. If there's going to be ill will between outfits, there's sure to be gun play in Angels. Now I want this to be neutral ground all the time."

"I will state another fact," went on old John Nickum, "After this my men will come and go in parties, peaceably and without intent to quarrel."

Everybody waited for Shander to say as much. But he was halfway to the door and only flung a short reply over his shoulder. "My riders can take care of themselves."

The meeting broke up. Nero Studd had already gone. Beef Graney overtook Shander and they left together. Wolfert remained seated, wrapped in gloom and only roused himself to shoot a covertly unpleasant glance at Nickum as the latter went out accompanied by Manners and Nickum's vinegary foreman, Driver Haggerty.

Nickum, striding massively between the two, looked all around the Plaza, the wrath still simmering in him. "Border jumpers, professional gunslingers, knife artists—the place is full of them. Look yonder by Nero Studd's joint. See those two fellows leaning against the porch post? Curley's men, ain't they?"

"Just so," agreed Buck Manners lazily.

"Shander's asking for trouble," muttered Nickum. "And he'll get it. He ain't smart enough for an old hand like me, not for a minute. He's the man who's drawing all the crooks together. He's making a play at me. He's got Wolfert obeying his orders. He's got Beef Graney, the poor fool, under his thumb. He's probably working hand in glove with that yellow-livered, greasy-fingered Nero Studd. Studd was always a cheap and crooked politician and always will be—sees everything, knows everything and draws the support of every outlaw in this country. And I'm betting Shander and Studd, between 'em, have got Curly lined up. A fine set of thieves—all pointing at me! Wolfert let the cat out of the bag when he same as said he'll be elected another term. Meaning he's got all the underhanded support."

Manners laughed. "I observed that Graney and Studd and Shander gave him some very dirty looks for making that break."

"You bet. Hand in glove." Nickum closed one big paw and struck at the air. "I am too old at this game to be beat now. I've licked harder men than they ever will be. They want war. I'll give 'em a bellyful of it, Buck! Who's that over there?"

He ducked his head at the ambling figure of Clint Charterhouse who, hat tilted rakishly against the burning sun, was crossing back to Studd's Saloon. Buck Manners stared intently. Driver Haggerty shifted his chew and spoke for the first time in an hour. "Stranger. Rode in a little while ago. Elegant horse with a strange brand and a heap expensive saddle."

"Strangers from now on had better declare themselves," grunted old John Nickum.

"Let's amble into Studd's for a drink," suggested Buck Manners. "Nero's probably got the man's personal history eight generations back."

"I wouldn't trust Nero behind my back in a crowded room," retorted Nickum. "Where's Sherry gone?"

"She's in Ortega's, buying a lot of notions," chuckled Manners, face lighting. Driver Haggerty's stringy countenance veered and covered Manners for a brief moment. Then all three of them passed into Nero Studd's.

Clint Charterhouse was standing beside Studd when the party entered and his attention instantly lighted on old John Nickum's imposing bulk. He knew a typical cattleman when he saw one and his reaction was to question the saloon keeper.

"Him?" replied Studd. "That's Nickum, Box M. Biggest outfit in Casabella. That homely mutt who looked like he's swallowed his tobacco is Haggerty, the foreman. Other man runs a range almost as big as Nickum's—Buck Manners. Inherited from his dad a year back."

"When I work," reflected Clint Charterhouse cheerfully, "I work for the top dog." He went forward, facing Nickum. The old ranchman stopped and stared truculently.

"Can you use another rider?" asked Charterhouse.

It was then that John Nickum committed an error. Almost always the soul of courtesy and usually the keenest judge of men, he was this afternoon in the grip of anger, stung by trouble and perplexed with the devious politics of the county. Thus he allowed himself to be gruff and unfriendly.

"I don't know you, sir."

Nettled by this obvious violation of the range's freemasonry, Charterhouse became gravely polite. "The same can be said, I reckon, of most men you hire. I didn't ask for partnership in Box M. I just asked for a job."

"So?" snapped Nickum, hackles rising. "Are you undertaking to dress me down, sir? I know my business well enough. And I'll repeat I don't know you. I have hired strangers and probably will again, but not at a time like this. At present drifters bear a bad name in Casabella. Where did you work last?"

"Since you don't intend to hire me," replied Charterhouse, increasingly formal, "I doubt if it's necessary to say. My apologies for taking your good time. It won't happen again."

The crowd in Studd's held its breath, waiting for the inevitable explosion to follow. Driver Haggerty's red little eyes glinted ominously, but Buck Manners relieved the tension with his infectious chuckle. "Damned if there isn't more powder in Angel's air today than ever I smelled before. After all, John, he's just looking for work. I don't see any horns on him." And he winked jovially at Charterhouse.

Once having taken his position, the old rancher would not back down. But his ingrained sense of propriety made a necessary concession. "If my talk seems unduly hard on your pride, sir, accept apologies. I am not hiring today."

"We will consider the incident closed," said Charterhouse levelly and turned his back on Nickum. Heck Seastrom bawled an order from the rear of the saloon. "Clear a space, you dudes! Hey, Manners, I got something that's a-going to stop you now. Take a look and bust out crying!"

A lane was made, revealing the irrepressible puncher standing affectionately over his immense rock. Manners laughed. "Still trying to cook up something to best me, huh? What do I do, lift it?"

"I got a month's pay salted which says you can't," stated Seastrom roundly. "Down on your heels, one hand, and she's got to go the full length of your arm overhead."

"Another month's pay I can," said Manners, crouching in front of the rock.

"Took!"

Manners threw off his hat, the curly yellow hair shining even in this dull light. The face grew astonishingly sober and hard, reminding Clint Charterhouse of a man slipping off a mask to reveal his true lineaments. Buck's palm rested beneath the rock; he put a tentative pressure against it, swayed on his heels once and said, "Hup!" mightily, body rising, weaving, and swinging around; the muscles of his slim neck went white, like taut cables, and the rock was poised overhead. He grinned again and cried, "Watch out!" Men ducked and the rock sailed down the room and went crashing through the floor.

The crowd yelled. "Now you've busted my floor!" cried Nero Studd angrily. But he was drowned out by Heck Seastrom who flung his hat down and stamped on it.

"Busted your floor? Hell, he's busted me! Two months' wages! I'll be working for Box M the rest of my natural life! I practiced six weeks on that trick!"

"Mebbe that's why you ain't no damn good when it comes to work," jeered somebody.

Buck Manners chuckled and walked to the end of the counter. "My turn now, Heck. Come down here and try another little test."

"Nossir, not me," protested Seastrom moodily. "I done had enough. I'm content to be second strongest man in this here county. Let it go like that."

Manners was in his element, a happy-go-lucky rowdy for the moment, with all the cares of his enormous holdings forgotten. "Anybody try. Come on." His glance arrived at Clint Charterhouse and stayed there. "You try, friend. I can't get any contest out of those buzzards any more. What's the fun of it if nobody will play in my back yard?"

"Why me?" countered Charterhouse, smiling slightly.

"Give him a play," urged Seastrom hopefully. The crowd closed in, interested in this stranger who so far had consistently refused to label himself. Charterhouse saw Manners eyeing him in cool calculation. Stepping around, he faced the yellow-haired cattleman across the bar. Manners had his right elbow on the bar, forearm raised; it was the old "muscling down" test, well known to Charterhouse, who extended his own right hand, They locked fingers and adjusted their elbows cagily. Manners grinned across at Charterhouse. "All set? Then—go!"

Charterhouse had braced his body against the bar, but the enormous power Manners threw into his forearm almost unbalanced him, even so. He locked his leg under a box of beer bottles, the cords of his wrist springing to the pressure. Manners had, in the first exertion of strength, pushed Charterhouse's arm slightly toward the bar, toward defeat. Charterhouse bowed his head and hurled his will into the protesting muscles. The cattleman's grip was like iron and he was using it to paralyze Charterhouse's finger nerves, crushing down. A runner of weakness began to deaden his arm, hot sweat started to his face; yet his wrist came upright again, and there strained on even terms. He lifted his head, catching the glances of those packed in the saloon. Manners was grinning through the strained lines of his cheeks but his eyes stared into Charterhouse's with a flare of hot fighting spirit. And suddenly his arm gave way and fell to the bar. He drew free and swung it limply, shaking his head in mock soberness.

"That beats me, friend. First man I ever met with a better grip than mine."

"Had you stuck it out another thirty seconds," drawled Charterhouse, "you'd got the decision."

"Let's try the left hand for a change," suggested Manners.

"Agreeable," replied Charterhouse and braced himself once more.

Their fingers locked. This time Manners only nodded and instantly hurled all the power of his shoulders into his wrist. Charterhouse felt his sinews shaking along his arm and although he kept it upright during an interval of terrific effort, he knew he would soon lose. The pressure was too great; and after a recent struggle, he surrendered; his right hand was numb and he disliked having his left in the same condition. Manners showed surprise and stepped back, chuckling more freely.

"That restores some of my damaged prestige. We'll have to call it a draw. You've certainly got the best right."

"Your left hand," mused Charterhouse, dashing the sweat off his face, "is better than your right. Unusual."

"It favors me in most things," agreed Manners casually. "But why didn't you make a struggle for it?"

"Never spend my strength on a losing fight," drawled Charterhouse, reaching around for a free-lunch sandwich.

"To fight another day, eh?" suggested Manners and studied his opponent with an increased attention. "That's not a bad way of looking at things. Well—"

The saloon was stunned by the roar of a revolver at the very doors. A thick yell smashed over the plaza, a man cried for help dismally. Another gun spoke, splintering the saloon's upper wall and then Angels was trembling as the two factions raced for shelter, and the burst of bullets grew. Standing in front of the crowd within Studd's, Clint saw the sweeping reaction, a paling, a darkening, a contraction of faces. John Nickum started for the door, but Buck Manners pushed him aside.

"Stay put, John. I'm the only neutral in the place. You buzzards in here stay humble. This is only some private quarrel that's exciting a few other damn fools. I'll settle it—" His long frame dived through the door and Charterhouse heard a sharp, staccato order whip all around the plaza.

"Stop this nonsense! Drop those guns, you skittish fools! Can't a couple fellows stage a fight without drawing in the whole of Casabella county? Cut it out—cut it out! You, yonder by the water trough, pull down that piece. If I take a hand in this, somebody's going to drop. All hands come out of shelter."

John Nickum was planted in front of the exit, fire flashing beneath his bushy brows, cowing the saloon bunch to uneasy silence. A last shot cracked across the plaza and silence fell. Nickum spoke grimly. "Box M, get to your horses. I have given my word we will ride peacefully out of town today. But I want this county to know that if war is the desire of certain elements, war is what they shall have! Outside, Box M!"

Nickum's men pushed eagerly through the doors, leaving a handful of strangely quiet loungers behind. Nero Studd's single, flat tones struck clear through the long room. "Everybody humble. I want no guns drawn in my establishment. The man who violates that rule answers personally to me. Sit down, Flake, and finish your drink."

Charterhouse, holding half a sandwich in one hand, passed out of the place and stopped on the walk. Somebody was cursing Box M with a lurid violence back there and was in turn cursed into meekness by Studd. The plaza was alive with milling men; gunpowder swirled down the porches and a few paces off a man rolled awkwardly into the hot sun and emitted a strangled cry. Nobody paid him the least attention as he drew his last breath and died. Nickum was bellowing at his followers; Box M swung into a semimilitary column, watchfully quiet. Buck Manners galloped past the saloon leading a riderless horse which he led to an adjacent store. A girl stepped out, laden with packages; Manners bent over to take them, smiling at her and receiving some sober reply; then she was up on her horse with one graceful move and the cavalcade moved away, leaving Angels in a haze of dust and with the taint of blood.

Standing there, soberly thoughtful, Charterhouse was conscious that an element of strength had left the town, leaving it the worse for company. The men now moving restlessly toward the dead individual were not of the same clean-cut class at all, their faces belonged to a type Charterhouse had seen too often not to recognize. A loud, bitter prophecy came down the street to him. "They got Neal, damn 'em! It was the fool's own fault for trying to wash his dirty rags on a day like this! But they got him—they fired the first shot—and it ain't going to be the last by a hell of a lot! Where's Shander, where's Studd?"

A flimsy man with weak, stooping shoulders came along toward the saloon and somebody spoke his name. "Shander—say, Shander, come over here!" But the man said, "Shut up!" and cast a black glance at Charterhouse. The next moment he was inside Studd's. Charterhouse ambled across the plaza, stopping at the water trough to wash down the last of the sandwich. Going into the grateful coolness, he went for his horse. The stall was empty and his saddle and gear missing from the pegs.