The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour: Vol 3 Part 26

"Get out," Regan said, unmoving. "Get out and don't come back until tomorrow afternoon. I'll meet you here then, and if you want trouble, I'll whip you-bare-handed!"

"What?" Hefferman spoke in a hoa.r.s.e whisper. "You'd fight me with your hands?"

"Yes, and beat your head to jelly! Now get out of here!"

"Get out, is it?" Hefferman started for Regan. "I'll throw you out!"

He was walking fast, and Dan reached out with a toe of his boot and hooked a chair with it, kicking it into the bigger man's ankles. Hefferman ran into the chair in midstride and came down with a stunning crash. He drew back to his knees, clumsily kicking the ruins of the chair loose from his ankles.

When he lifted his dazed eyes he was looking into Dan Regan's six-shooter. "Beat it!" Dan said quietly. "You light a shuck!"

Slowly, his eyes clearing, Hefferman got to his feet. "I'll kill you for this!" he said viciously.

"All right. Tomorrow. With your fists," Regan said. "Don't be late. Three is the hour!"

When he was gone, Meadows shook his head. "You sure do beat all!" he said. "You get out of fixes better than any man I ever saw! But now you've got a chance to get away, and you better do it!"

"Leave? " Regan smiled. "And miss all the fun? Don't worry, I'll be here tomorrow! And while I think of it, you'd best not sell out if you haven't, nor plan on leaving. There's going to be a change around here!"

He walked out, leaving Jenny staring after him with puzzled eyes. "Dad, what's the matter with him? Is he afraid, or is he a fool?"

Meadows lit his pipe. "I don't know, Jenny darling," he said, "but I've a feeling he's neither!"

It was spitting snow when Dan Regan rode into the ranch yard of the Slash B. He walked his horse across the yard to the rail by the house, dismounted, and tied him. Then he started up the steps.

"Wait a minute!" It was Anse Wiley. "You can't go in there!"

"Who says I can't?"

"I do!"

"Then it doesn't mean a thing. Go on back to the bunkhouse out of this snow. I want to see Cash."

"Cash?" Wiley's face was angry. "He's a sick man. n.o.body sees him!"

"That gag worked too long and too well for you and Bud," Regan said. "I know all about you. You've been stealing the place blind, both of you. Now the fun is over. Get out of town or get thrown in jail!"

The foreman stared at him, aghast.

"I'm not talking through my hat," Regan added. "I have facts and figures. You tell Bud, and you can have twenty-four hours' start. No more."

Deliberately, he turned on his heel and walked in. Bud Billings came out of his chair with a startled exclamation. Dan moved by him toward Cash's room.

"Stop!" Bud demanded. "What do you mean breaking in here?"

Regan looked at him. "Bud Billings, you're a cheap little thief! Now get out and join Wiley and get going or I'll throw you out!"

Bud stared, swallowed, and stepped out of the way. Dan Regan walked by him and threw open the door where old Cash lay propped up on some pillows. The fierce old eyes blazed at him. "Who in tarnation are you?"

"Not one of the thieves you have around you!" Regan flashed back. "While you lie there in that bed, your nephew, Bud, has been stealing you blind and Wiley helping him! Now the rustlers have started in and they are cuttin' your herds day and night!"

"What's that?" Billings roared. "Who the devil are you?"

"I'm Dan Regan, Pat Regan's son!" Dan said calmly. "I've been working for you as a lion hunter and watching them steal you out of house and home until I got sick and tired of it!

"You lying there in that bed! You aren't sick, you old catamount! You just ate too much and laid around too much! After a man's been in the saddle as long as you he's got to die in the saddle! You figured you were rich and let Bud and Wiley talk you into taking it easy!"

Coolly then, Regan recited the events of the past few months, the whipping of Wiley, the laughing at the Slash B, the stealing without even attempting cover. "Bud didn't dare raise hob about it because he was stealin' himself!" he added.

Cash stared at him, chewing the ends of his mustache. "What right have you got to be here?" he demanded. "Your Pa and I never did get along!"

"No, you sure didn't, you pig-headed old fraud!" Dan told him. "Pat Regan spent a lifetime pulling you out of holes, and he told me to keep an eye on you, and that's what I've done. Now make me your foreman so I can get things going around here!"

Cash Billings stared at him angrily, and then suddenly, his eyes began to twinkle. "Be dehorned if you ain't the spittin' image of Pat!" he said. "Only bigger! You're some bigger! All right! You're the new foreman! Now go ahead and run the show until I get on my feet!"

"You," Dan pointed his finger, "be on your feet in the morning, understand?"

He turned to go, and Cash stopped him. "Dan? Is that your name? You ever handled cows? What you been doin?" Billings stared at him suspiciously.

Dan Regan smiled. "Why, I punched cows a while, took three herds up the trail to Dodge and then Ogallala. After that I was a Texas Ranger for about four years."

He walked down to the bunkhouse and opened the door. Tom Newton sat disconsolately before the fire. He glanced up. "Oh? It's you? Did you run Wiley off?"

"Uh-huh. I'm the new foreman. Tom, you straddle your bronc and hightail it for my cabin. Curly Bowne, Jim Webb, and Jones are holed up there. Get them back down here but fast. Tell them I want them at the stage station, and you too, tomorrow not later than three."

"What happens then?" Tom asked, staring at this new Regan.

Dan smiled. "Why, first I'm going to lick the stuffing out of Bill Hefferman. Then I'm going to run Burr Fulton out of the country afoot and without pants! After that," he added grimly, "you and the rest of the boys are going to come with me. We're going to comb these brakes like they were never combed, and any man we find who doesn't start running when we see him will wear a hemp necktie or swallow lead! We're going to have this country fit to live in again!"

Bill Hefferman was sore. Moreover, he was boastful. He was a big man and a fighter, and there was no cowardly bone in all his huge body. Victor in many barroom and rangeland brawls, he feared no man and was confident he could whip anyone. Dan Regan he regarded as small potatoes. In fact, the entire Fulton crowd regarded it as a huge lark-if Dan showed up, and the betting was five to one he wouldn't. One bettor was Jenny Meadows.

The Fulton crowd arrived early. Bottles had been pa.s.sed around freely. Burr swaggered into the long dining room and dropped at the table to drink coffee and eat doughnuts, always available at the stage station.

"He'll be here!" Jenny said. Suddenly, though she could not have said why, she was very sure. "You wait and see!"

"Him?" Burr was incredulous. "He won't show up! Aside from Bill, I've got my own little score to pay off with him, and if he shows up, I aim to pay off!"

"He'll show up!" Jenny said firmly.

Burr grinned insolently. "Want to bet? I'll bet you a dollar he doesn't show!"

"Are you a piker?" Jenny flashed. "A dollar!" Scorn was thick in her voice. "What do you think I am, a child? I'll bet you one hundred dollars to five hundred! Those are the odds they are offering that he shows up. I'll bet you another hundred dollars to five hundred that when he shows up he will whip Bill Hefferman!"

Fulton stared, then laughed. "Are you crazy?" he demanded. "He hasn't a chance! If he had nerve enough he couldn't do it, and he's yellow as b.u.t.tercups! Never gave anybody an even break!"

"I made my offer!" Jenny's face was pale, her eyes flashing. "Are you a piker? You've talked so big about the money you have! Put it up!"

He laughed, a little uneasily. He was unused to betting with a woman, and while he had no doubt he would win, still . . .

"He's yellow!" Burr persisted. "If he should whip Bill, which he won't, I'd run him out of the country!"

Thoroughly angry, Jenny said, "All right, then! If I win I'll bet all I win on the first two bets that he runs you out of the country!"

Burr Fulton sprang to his feet, white with anger. "Me?" he roared. "Run me out? Why you lit-!"

He broke off, staring at her. "All right," he said, "it's a bet!"

"Then let's put up our money!" Jenny said flatly. "If he runs you out of the country I'll have a hard time collecting! Here comes Dad and Colmer. We'll give the money to Dad to hold for us while Colmer is a witness!"

Burr slowly counted out the money, his face dark with anger and resentment. He felt that he had never been so insulted in his life. Secretly, he fancied himself another Billy the Kid, and this talk of running him out! He snorted.

As the hour hand straightened up to three o'clock, four riders came down the hill to the stage station and dismounted. Everyone there knew them-Tom Newton, Jim Webb, Curly Bowne, and Jack Jones. All were top hands, tough riders who had fought Indians and rustlers with the Slash B when Cash Billings was on his feet and ramrodding the spread himself.

Lew Meadows eyed them thoughtfully, then stole a look at Burr. Fulton's face was a study in doubt and irritation. Bill Hefferman peeled off his shirt and stepped out beyond the hitching rail. "Well, where is he?" he roared.

"Right here!" The reply was a ringing shout, and all heads turned. Dan Regan stood in the stable door. How he had gotten there or how long he had been there, n.o.body knew. Jenny felt her heart give a great leap. He had come, then! He wasn't afraid!

Stripped to the waist, he looked a bigger man, and certainly a more rugged one, and powerfully muscled. He walked out and handed his shirt to Meadows. He wore two guns, tied low. He stepped up to the mark Hefferman had drawn with a toe, and grinned at the big man.

"All right," he said cheerfully, "you asked for it!"

Both hands were carried chest high, rubbing the palms together, and as he spoke he smashed a straight left to Bill's mustache that staggered the big man and started a thin trickle of blood from his broken lips. Hefferman grunted and looped a roundhouse swing that missed. Dan Regan's left lanced that mustache three times, flashing like a striking snake. Then a right uppercut jerked the big man's head back, and the crowd roared.

Hefferman rushed, swinging. Regan parried one swing, ducked another, and caught the third on the chin going away, but went down hard. Bill rushed to get close and Dan rolled over and came to his feet. He stabbed another left to the mouth, took a smashing blow on the chin that rang bells in his head, and then he bored in, ripping wicked, short-arm punches to the body with all the drive of his powerful shoulders. Bill pushed him away and swung with everything he had. The punch caught Regan on the chin, and he went down, turned a complete somersault, and lay stretched out on his face in the dust!

A shout went up from the Fulton men, and they began dancing around, slapping each other on the back.

Then Regan got up. They stared. Hefferman, astonished beyond reason, rushed. He met that same stiff left hand in the teeth, and it stopped him flat-footed. Before he could get untracked, Regan knocked him down with a right. Lunging to his feet, Hefferman charged. The two began slugging like madmen. Bill grabbed Dan by the belt and shirt and heaved him high, but Dan jerked up with his knee and smashed Bill's nose to crumpled bone and flesh. Hefferman staggered and Regan broke loose.

Dropping to his feet he set himself and threw two powerful swings to Bill's chin. Like a lightning-shivered oak, the big man staggered and his knees buckled. Dan Regan walked in, threw a left, and then let go with a right to the belly that drove every bit of wind Hefferman had into one explosive grunt. The big man doubled, and Regan brought a right from his knees that lifted him from his feet and dropped him on his back in the dust! He lay perfectly still.

Dan Regan stepped back quickly, working his fingers. His work-hardened hands felt good. Skinned on the knuckles, but still supple and quick. "All right, Fulton!" he said. Burr wheeled. The gunman dropped into a half crouch, his eyes suddenly aware. Triumph lit his eyes, and with a sneer, he dropped his hands.

Then he froze, still clutching the b.u.t.ts. He blinked and swallowed. He was looking into a pair of twin six-guns that had appeared in Dan Regan's hands as if by magic. "It was a trick!" he roared. "A sneaking trick!"

Dan smiled. "Why, you tinhorn, try it again!" He dropped his guns into his holsters and lifted his hands free. Before Burr Fulton could so much as tighten his grip on his own guns, Regan's had leaped from his holsters.

"Burr," Regan said quietly, "I told you you wouldn't have a chance with me! You're not a badman, you're just a wild-haired cowhand who got an idea he was fast! Back up and go to punching cows before you try to draw on the wrong man and get killed! You're no gunslinger! You couldn't even carry a gunslinger's saddle!"

Burr Fulton swallowed. It was hard to take, but he was remembering the speed of those guns, noting the steadiness of them. "Try it again!" he screamed. "And come up shootin! I'd rather be killed than made a fool of!" He was trembling with fury, his face white and strained.

"Burr," Dan replied patiently, "you're strictly small-time, and I'm not a scalp hunter. You draw on me and I'll shoot holes in your ears!"

Burr Fulton froze. Perhaps nothing else would have done it. Holes in his ears! The brand of a coward! Why, he would be ruined! He would . . .

He stepped back and straightened up. "All right," he choked. "You win!"

"Now," Regan said. "I'm ramrodding the Slash B from here on! Anyone caught rustling our stock will be strung up right on the ranch and left hanging until he dries up and blows away! You've all got just until daylight to leave the country. Tomorrow my boys start combing the brakes, hunting for strangers. I hope we don't find any!"

Webb, Newton, Bowne, and Jones suddenly stepped out in a solid rank. All four held double-barreled shotguns which Curly had taken from their horses under cover of the fight.

"All right, boys! Start moving!" Dan said quietly.

They moved. Dan Regan walked up on the porch and looked at Jenny. "Well, I'm back,' he said, "and there's another dance at Rock Springs on Sat.u.r.day. Want to go with your husband?"

"That's the only way I'll ever go to another dance there!" she replied tartly. "Anyway, we can buy furniture with the money."

"What money?" he asked suspiciously.

"The money I won from Burr Fulton, betting on you at five to one!" she said, smiling a little, her eyes very bright.

LONIGAN.

Heat lay like the devil's curse upon the slow-moving herd, and dust clouded above and around them. The eyes of the cattle were glazed, and the gra.s.s beneath their feet was brown and without vigor or life-giving nourishment. The sun was lost in a bra.s.sy sky, and when Calkins knelt and put his palm to the ground the earth was almost too hot to touch.

He got slowly to his feet, his face unnaturally old with the gray film of dust and the stubble of beard on his jaws. "You ask for the truth."

His voice was harsher than normal, and Ruth Gurney recognized it at once, and looked at him quickly, for as a child, she had known this man and had loved him like an uncle. "All right, you'll get the truth. There's no chance of you making money on this herd. Half your cows will die this side of Dodge. They'll die of thirst and heat, and the rest won't be worth the drive. You're broke, ma'am."

Her lips tightened and as the truth penetrated she was filled with desperation coupled with a feminine desire for tears. All along she had guessed as much, but one-and-all the hands had avoided telling her. "But what's the matter, Lon? The Circle G always made its drives before, and always made money. We've the same men, and the trail's the same."

"No." He spoke flatly. "Nothin's the same. The trail's bad. It's been a strikin' dry year, and we got a late start. The other herds got the good gra.s.s, and trampled the rest into the dust. She's hotter'n usual, too. And," he added grimly, "we ain't got the same men."

"But we have, Lon!" Ruth protested.

"No." He was old and stubborn. "We ain't. We got one new one too many, and the one we should have ain't here."

Her lips tightened and her chin lifted. "You mean Hoey Ives. You don't like him."

"You should spit in the river, I don't! Nor do the others. He's plumb bad, ma'am, whether you believe it or not. He's no-account. I'll allow, he's educated and slick talkin', but he's still an Ives, and a bigger pack of coyotes never drew breath."

"And you think this-this Lonigan would make a difference? What can one man do against heat and dust and distance? What could he do to prevent storms and rustler raids?"

"I ain't for knowing. If'n I did, mebbe this herd would get through in shape. But Lonigan would know, and Lonigan would take her through. Nor would he take any guff from Hoey Ives. I'll tell you, ma'am, Hoey ain't along for fun. He comes of a pack of outlaws, and education ain't changed his breed none."

"We won't talk about Mr. Ives any further, Lon. Not one word. I have utmost confidence in him. When the drive is over I ... I may marry him."

Lon Calkins stared at her. "I'll kill him first, or die shooting. Your pappy was a friend of mine. I'll not see a daughter of his marry into that outfit." Then he added, more calmly, "If'n that's what you figure, Ruth, you better plan on hirin' new hands when you get back to Texas."

"Very well, then, that's what I'll do, Lon." Her voice was even, but inside her words frightened her. "That's just what I'll do. I own the Circle G, and I'll run it my way."

Calkins said nothing for a long minute, and then he mused. "I wonder sometimes if'n anybody does own a brand. The Circle G, ma'am, ain't just a brand on some cows. It ain't just some range in Texas. It's more . . . much, much more.

"I ain't much hand to talkin' of things like that, but you remember when your pappy and us come west? The Comanches killed O'Brien and Kid Leslie on the Brazos. I reckon both of them were part of the Circle G, ma'am. And Tony, that lousy Italian grub hustler, the one who rolled under a chuck wagon down on the cowhouse. He was part of the Circle G, too.

"A brand ain't just a sign on a critter, it's the lives, and guts, and blood of all the men that went to build it, ma'am. You can't get away from that, no way. The Circle G is your pappy standin' over your mother when she died givin' birth to you. The Circle G is all of that.

"n.o.body owns a brand, ma'am, like I say; n.o.body. It's a thing that hangs in the air over a ranch, over its cows, and over its men. You know why that kid Wilkeson got killed in Uvalde? An hombre there said this was a lousy outfit, and the kid reached for his gun. He died for the brand, ma'am, like a hundred good and bad men done afore this. And you want to wipe it out, destroy it, just because you got your mind set on a no-account coyote. I wish Lonigan was back."