The Devil's Roundup Part 1

The Devil's Roundup.

Will Cook.

The saloon was crowded with noise and men. The gun coughed again, followed by the tinkle of splintered gla.s.s. Kerry stepped in the door as Dillon shattered another bottle with his .44 Colt. The man gave Kerry a brazen grin and said: "Well, well, the sheriff. I was just havin' a little fun. You don't mind me havin' fun, do you?"

Willie narrowed the distance with each step. "I guess your hearin' was outta whack the other day." His voice was low and cool, and it wiped the grin from Buck Dillon's face.

Dillon shifted the gun, pointing it at Kerry's middle. "Hold it where you are! I guess you're one of them crazy men that ain't got sense enough to know when a man means somethin'."

Willie halted three feet away from the man. He raised a hand easily and shoved his hat to the back of his head. "h.e.l.l," he said mildly, "we can talk this over, can't we?"

Dillon grinned then, and he let out a relieved breath. Willie whipped off his hat, and slapped the man across the face with the stiff brim. The gun went off....

Other books by Will Cook:.

ELIZABETH, BY NAME SABRINA KANE.

This t.i.tle was previously published by Dorchester Publishing; this version has been reproduced from the Dorchester book archive files.

Foreword.

The Barb Wire War.

The Big Kill.

The Range That h.e.l.l Forgot.

The Devil's Roundup.

The Sheriffs Lady.

Will Cook's relatively short life-he died of a heart attack in 1964, at age forty-two-was packed with more action and adventure than the lives of any of his fictional characters. Born in Indiana in 1921, he ran away from home at sixteen to join the U.S.Cavalry. He became disillusioned with that branch of the service when horses were eliminated as a result of mechanization, and transferred to the U.S.Army Air Force. During World War 11, he served as a pilot in the South Pacific. In the post-war years he flew as a bush pilot in Alaska, and later worked as a deputy sheriff in northern California. He had a pa.s.sion for sports cars and sports car racing, and for boats. At the time of his death, he was engaged in building a sailing vessel in which he intended to sail to Polynesia with his family.

Like his life, Cook's writing career was relatively short and intensely pursued. He began producing fiction in 1951; his first three published short stories appeared in the same month, March of 1953, in Western pulp magazines, and his first novel, Frontier Feud, was a Popular Library paperback original the following year. Between 1951 and 1964, he published sixty short stories and novelettes (all but a handful of these in the period 1953-1955) and fifty novels under his own name and the pseudonyms James Keene, Wade Everett, and Frank Peace. Several other novels, completed prior to his death, appeared posthumously.

Nearly all of Cook's fictional output is traditional or historical Westerns. He wrote often and well of the U.S.Cavalry and its encounters with various Native American tribes, most notably in a series of related stories. Of these, "Comanche Captives" first appeared in serial form in The Sat.u.r.day Evening Post (3/14/59-4/25/59) and was later filmed by John Ford as Two Rode Together (Columbia, 1961). These stories have since been published in an integrated trilogy, as intended by the author: A Saga of Texas Book One: Until Day Breaks (Five Star Westerns, 1999), A Saga of Texas Book Two: Until Shadows Fall (Five Star Westerns, 2000), and A Saga of Texas Book Three: Until Darkness Disappears (Five Star Westerns, 2001). Much of Will Cook's other Western fiction dealt with such standard Western themes as range wars, cattle rustling, and frontier law enforcement. Among the best of these are Seven for Vengeance (Random House, 1958) by James Keene, a tense suspense tale involving the disparate members of a man-hunting posse, and The Rain Tree (Five Star Westerns, 1996) that effectively chronicles the lives and rainmaking efforts of settlers on the and Western plains. Cook was equally adept at the Western historical novel as evidenced by Sabrina Kane (Dodd, Mead, 1956), vividly set in frontier Illinois in 1811; Elizabeth, by Name (Dodd, Mead, 1958), a sharply realistic romance of the Texas plains in the 1870s; and The Breakthrough (Macmillan, 1963), a powerful study of the hardships and bigotry faced by a returning Native American veteran of the First World War.

In both novels and short stories, Cook often linked otherwise independent tales through the use of recurring characters. The five short novels in these pages are a good example. Written early in his career, all five appeared between March, 1953 and February, 1954. The first, "The Barb Wire War," was his fourth published story. Two initially appeared under the pseudonym Frank Peace, a borrowing of the name of the protagonist of Trouble Shooter, a 1937 novel by Ernest Hayc.o.x, a writer who Cook greatly admired.

This frontier quintet shares a common northern Texas cattle country setting and records the interrelated lives of their protagonists over a span of some twenty years, beginning in 1877. In "The Barb Wire War" tough young visionary Wes Cardigan struggles to introduce shorthorn cattle and barb-wire fencing to a region stubbornly controlled by longhorn breeders. John Saber, an old friend of Cardigan's and a federal marshal, is brought in to investigate rustling in "The Big Kill," and stays on to marry and become a wealthy and powerful cattle baron himself Willie Kerry, a young cowhand with a small ranch, finds love at a price in "The Range that h.e.l.l Forgot," and is later appointed interim sheriff of the nearby town, Hondo, in order to quell trouble with desert dwellers in "The Sheriff's Lady." Phil Stalker, an inexperienced drifter who dreams of being a lawyer, makes his first appearance in "The Devil's Roundup," in which he uncovers the solution to a case of brand blotting. Like Saber, he then marries and settles in the community.

The lives, loves, trials, and triumphs of these four men are presented with raw realism and simple understanding. As Western fiction authority R.E.Briney has noted, a hallmark of Cook's fiction is his "compa.s.sion for his characters who must be able to survive in a wild and violent land. His protagonists make mistakes, hurt people they care for, and sometimes succ.u.mb to ign.o.ble impulses, but this all provides an added dimension to the artistry of his work."

If these early tales are less polished, less fully realized, than the author's later fiction, they nonetheless contain all the elements of story, character, and background that make Will Cook's body of work among the most entertaining published during the Western renaissance of the 'Fifties and 'Sixties, and among the most developmentally significant as well.

Bill p.r.o.nzini Petaluma, California.

I.

He stood in the vestibule, bracing himself against the lurch of the coach as the train slowed to enter town. He took a long drag on his cigar and spun it away from him, the red end fashioning a brief dance in the night. The lights of a section gang's shanty flashed by, and the sharp odor of the Hondo loading pens faded away. Up ahead, the engineer applied the brakes, gently at first, then with a determination that wrung squeals from the tracks with a sharp banging of loose couplings.

Wes Cardigan thrust his head past the edge of the coach as the station lights spread into yellow squares of lamplight. The train stopped with a last futile jerk that threw him shoulderfirst against the door frame. He cursed mildly, and lifted his valise to step down to the cinder platform. Ahead of him, the engine puffed and snorted, its glowing firebox sending wavering fingers of light against the side of the baggage depot. The agent shouted to someone in the mail car, and Cardigan gave him a quick glance, pausing by the telegrapher's window to watch him rattle a key to a mute length of wire. He tapped lightly on the window, and the man shoved his green eyeshade to the back of his head, and turned to the window. He grinned as he recognized Cardigan. The window squealed, stuck, and squealed again, as he pushed it open. He put his head close to Cardigan and spoke softly: "Just got it in, Wes. The shipment left Council Bluff last night."

Cardigan nodded, and turned toward the darkened end of the platform, his long-legged stride carrying him toward the red dot that glowed and died against the side of the station. He halted alongside the man, thumbed his hat to the back of his head. He brushed his full roan mustache with a forefinger, and stuck a fresh cigar between his thin lips.

"Well?" Cardigan asked impatiently. "Did you get all of them dug?"

Turkey Jack shoved himself away from the wall, hooked a thumb in his sagging gun belt. "Yep," he said, and his wrinkled old face creased in a lopsided grin. "There was some folks around here that said you wouldn't come back after what happened last month."

Cardigan fumbled through his pockets for a match. Turkey Jack wiped one alight, holding it before him. Cardigan bent a little to puff his smoke, and the brief flare played against his pale eyes and the harsh angles of his young face. His hair glinted a light, reddish brown; the full mustache hid his upper lip. "Tonight's the night, ain't it?" he asked, an odd stirring in his usually calm voice.

"Still aimin' to defy the old buzzard?"

Cardigan studied the red tip of his cigar and said: "What do you think?"

Turkey Jack grunted softly. "Figured you would, so 1 brought this along for you." He handed the curled sh.e.l.l belt and holstered gun to Cardigan.

The tall man's mouth pulled into a severe line, and he shook his head slowly from side to side.

Turkey Jack quickly thrust the gun at him and said tightly: "Don't be a d.a.m.ned fool about this thing, Wes. The time for talkin' is past. You ain't wore it for five years, but times have changed around here."

Cardigan studied his foreman in the half light and took the gun, brushing his coat tail aside to buckle the cartridge-laden belt around his waist. He raised his head, looking past the depot along the length of Comanche Street. Fragments of lamplight dotted the loose dust, and a cl.u.s.ter of horses made a dark knot in front of the Alamo House. Two doors down, the swinging doors of Keno Charlie's saloon waved idly, and three men paused on the darkened gallery to converse in low tones.

Turkey Jack observed Cardigan's attention and muttered: "Yeah, Ackerman rode in early.. .him and his two gunnies."

A high-sided lumber wagon rumbled the length of the street, made a ponderous U-turn, and halted before Rutherford's store. Cardigan brushed his mustache, and Turkey Jack added: "Second family this month. Word sure gets around."

"They're no problem," Cardigan said impatiently, and slipped the .44 American from the holster. He broke it open, glanced at the unfired primers, and closed it with a vicious snap. "Where are they now?"

Turkey Jack took off his hat, brushed at the thinning gray hair. "Miles Straight and Pete Kerry are waiting for us at the Alamo House bar." He took Cardigan's sleeve and added hotly: "Let me go alone, Wes. I can take Bitter Creek off your hands for you, permanent."

Cardigan gave him a long glance, and Turkey Jack lowered his eyes to study his boots. The silence hung between them like a palpable thing, like some obscene scribbling on a backyard fence. Cardigan cleared his throat, said softly"Let's get at it then and get it over with."-and cut behind the depot.

They walked toward Comanche Street in silence, Turkey Jack a little to Cardigan's right rear, his bone-handled Colt beating against his skinny thigh. They struck the boardwalk with a sharp drumming of boots, and Cardigan paused to study the team tied before Harry Rutherford's store. One of the horses, a big Clydesdale, stamped a forefoot impatiently. Cardigan glanced through the open door. Rutherford raised his head, and surprise washed across his narrow face. He smothered it quickly, motioned to Cardigan with his hand.

The tall man stepped past a pile of stacked boxes, threaded his way past the hanging harness, and leaned on the counter beside the big homesteader and his family. He studied Cardigan with a level neutrality, glanced at the tieddown gun, and shifted his eyes.

Cardigan swung his eyes to the women. One was middleaged, her round face criss-crossed with the lines of hard work. He sucked in his breath silently as the other, a young woman, turned away from the notions counter. He stared at her for a full ten seconds before he realized it, then dropped his eyes quickly, the picture burning, sharp and clear, in his brain. She was tall, and her pale gold hair fell in loosely braided ropes against her gently curving shoulders. Her eyes, when she had glanced at him, were a deep blue, and the full mouth pulled into a faint smile. There was an aura of friendliness about her, an open-handed trust in life that pushed aside all pretense and convention. That woman is fire, Cardigan thought. She'd be worth a man's time fighting for.

He brushed his mustache with his finger, raised his head as Rutherford's whining voice came to him. "Saw you pa.s.s, Wesley, and 1 just wondered if you'd care to settle up."

Turkey Jack growled something under his breath, and Cardigan's brow wrinkled into a frown. "This isn't the first of the month, Harry."

Rutherford spread his hands in the time-worn gesture. "1 know that, Wesley, but some of the Sunrise boys have been spending right free. 1 sorta like to keep things straight."

Turkey Jack pushed against the big homesteader, trying to get past, and Cardigan stopped him with a slight movement of his hand. He was aware that he was being watched, and he caught sight of a young man, blond like the girl, edging his way into the group.

"Let's see the bill," Cardigan said, and touched a match to his dead cigar.

Rutherford rustled papers under the counter, and slid the sheet across to him. Cardigan glanced at it and said thinly"This is less than usual, Harry."-and let the statement lay.

Rutherford ran a finger around a collar that had suddenly grown too tight. "To tell you the truth, Wesley, some folks didn't know if you was coming back or not. Ain't many that would have blamed you.. .with Amos Ackerman and his gun hands on your tail. He's in town, and Moose Dugan and Bitter Creek are trailing along behind him." He added lamely: "Fella's got to look out for his own interests."

"Maybe you think 1 won't be alive to pay this by the first of the month." Cardigan picked up the bill and waved it in the storekeeper's face.

"Now, Wesley," Rutherford whined. "1'm just bein' careful, that's all. Moose Dugan has been after you ever since you and him had that fight over Julia Ackerman. He's been after you to pack a gun...and now you're carryin' one. You got Amos Ackerman down on you for bringing in them d.a.m.ned blooded Hereford bulls." Rutherford shook his head sadly, and added: "If it don't make no difference to you, pay the bill now."

Cardigan glared at him until he dropped his eyes. He dug into his pocket and counted out a hundred and thirty-one dollars. He scrawled his name across the bill, added paid in full, and the date, August 10, 1877. There was a hard, dancing light in his gray eyes as he shoved it toward Rutherford. He said: "That's the last dime I'll ever spend in your d.a.m.n' store!"

The little man bristled at the affront, and his lips tightened. "You may not act so d.a.m.ned high and mighty when Ackerman gets through with you. You been cuttin' a big patch in this country, but you sure bit off more than you can chew now...and I'm glad to see it come!"

The talk bit into Cardigan. He reached a lazy arm across the counter and pulled the little man against him. The cigar jerked as he spoke. "Harry, my father made you. 1 was just a kid, but 1 remember you coming into this country with your bottom peeking out the holes in your pants and not two dollars to rattle in your pockets." He lowered his voice and added ominously: "Maybe it would be better if you sold out." He released his grip, allowing the man to sag back. He turned as the blonde girl pushed past the big homesteader and placed both hands flatly against his chest.

Her eyes were pools of flickering temper. When the older man took her arm, she shook it off and said caustically: "Aren't you afraid you'll strain your muscles picking on a man half your size? That's the way a cattleman operates, isn't it, shooting and burning and fighting people too small and weak to fight back?"

Cardigan felt the warmth of her hands through his silk shirt, and his heart hammered oddly. He took her gently by the waist and said: "1 have enough trouble for tonight, but I'll discuss that further... later." He smiled at her, and her eyes widened at the change in his face. She saw neither harshness nor cruelty there. It was a young face, and there was no apology in his manner as he lifted her aside so he could walk out. That one thing told her what he was, a man who moved things that stood in his way, one who did so relentlessly, without pa.s.sion or hate. Cardigan tipped his hat to her and strode from the store, Turkey Jack following obediently a few paces to the rear.

Wes Cardigan paused on the boardwalk, and Turkey Jack muttered: "That's the first one, but there'll be others. You can already feel the change. Folks figure the ship's sinkin' and are transferrin' over to the Ackerman crowd." He felt Cardigan stiffen, glanced at the tall man as the door of the Alamo House opened and a slim, long-legged girl stepped into the dust and crossed the street. Turkey Jack growled softly: "Don't get your hackles up. She likes you."

Cardigan cursed to himself, wondering why Julia Ackerman made him feel uneasy and defensive when they were together. She ducked under the hitch rail and stopped in the half light of Rutherford's store. She was shapely, the curve of her hips and long thighs filling her blue jeans. Her small b.r.e.a.s.t.s rose and fell with her breathing, as she watched him with her dark, unreadable eyes. When he didn't speak, she moved close to him and touched him.

"You don't seem glad to see me, Wes," she said softly. "I missed you something awful."

Cardigan shook his head, saying: "Not now, Julia. It's too late."

"Wes," her voice was pleading. "Don't go over there. Back down this once, and let things stand as they are. Bitter Creek is with Father, and 1 don't want anything to happen to either of you."

"it's too late," he repeated. "I've bought the bulls, and I'm going through with it." The thought of impending trouble whetted his appet.i.te. "Come with me. If Bitter Creek gets proddy,1'll give you his ears for a present."

"No!" she said hotly, then in a softer voice: "Don't be a fool, Wes. Dad is ready to fight to the last man over this. What you're doing is madness." She gripped his sleeves, laid her head imploringly against him. "Remember how it was with us, Wes. Don't destroy it now for...for this foolishness. Dad forgave you when you let the homesteaders on your place, but he won't for this."

The blonde girl came out of Rutherford's, paused a moment to study him, and mounted the wheel of the heavy wagon. Cardigan stiffened and pushed Julia away from him, feeling strangely ill at ease at having been caught with Julia pressed against him. He raised his eyes and found the girl watching him, and somehow he felt that she would hold this against him. He stroked his mustache and said: "Julia, we've known each other for twelve years... ever since your father moved to this country. We've had a lot of fun together, you and 1, but 1 never said that I loved you, and, if 1 ever did or said anything to make you believe that 1 did...well, I'm sorry."

She backed a step away from him, her mouth a round O.

Turkey Jack scowled, and shifted his big feet.

Julia's voice was a small, tight sound in the night. "What are you trying to say, Wes?"

"That this night may well be the end of our friendship."

"It will never end...not as far as I'm concerned," Julia said firmly.

Cardigan shook his head. "When that barbed wire goes up between the Sunrise and Leaning Seven, there will be no more you and me. It will be you with your people, and me. ..." He let the rest trail off into nothingness. He glanced at the Alamo House, ablaze with lights. He touched her arm, and asked: "Sure you don't want to come?"

She shook her head. "Promise me one thing, Wes...don't hurt Bitter Creek."

He made no attempt to mask his surprise. He stepped in closer to grip her shoulders. "What is this?" His tone was sharp. "Ever since we were kids, it's been there between us ...this warped, half-crazy killer. He's always held a fascination for you, hasn't he?" He stopped. "No! 1 won't promise you that. I'll kill him if he moves an eyelash."

"No, Wes!" Her face was twisted in fright. "If you never promise me anything else.. .promise me that!"

Cardigan glanced at Turkey Jack, and the old man nodded imperceptibly. Cardigan let out a long breath and said-"All right."-and moved away to cross the street.

II.

Amos Ackerman made a thin, high shape against the west wall of the room, as he watched Cardigan through narrowed eyes. Pete Kerry and his two lank, half-grown sons sat hunkered in their chairs, Pete nursing his pipe with a slow, puffing patience. Turkey Jack left Cardigan to stand by Miles Straight and his four boys, Straight's heavy body blocking him from Moose Dugan's view, but allowing him to cover Bitter Creek. Cardigan watched Turkey Jack and Bitter Creek, feeling the hatred pa.s.s between them, but not understanding it. It was something that had happened before his time, something that had occurred before Amos Ackerman moved to north Texas when Turkey Jack had then been the segundo of Ackerman's southern empire. Turkey Jack and the small gunman continued to exchange thinly veiled glances, as Bitter Creek toyed with the huge, silver buckle on his gun belt. Moose Dugan leaned his bulk toward the scowling Ackerman, whispered something to him, and Acker man dropped his eyes quickly to Cardigan's sagging gun.

The old man shoved his gaunt body away from the wall with his elbows, and said: "It's been a month since we've been together in this room. The last time changed things for all of us, and tonight we're gonna find out which way it changed." He pointed a bony finger at Cardigan. "You... you stood right where you're standin' now, and told me you was gonna fence your place. You gave me your reasons, and I gave mine against it. I'll give 'em to you again. Longhorn cattle has been good enough for Texas for thirty years, and they're good enough now. Them twenty white-faced bulls you bought will ruin Texas and every cow in it. They can't live on the open range like a longhorn. A critter has to be tough and wild to survive, and they don't need no barbedwire fences, either."

Cardigan smiled thinly, and slid his low voice in. "You forgot to mention that there's more profit in the shorthorn. They'll dress out three hundred pounds heavier at two years old, and the meat ain't so d.a.m.ned tough and stringy you can't cut it with an axe. The railroad is here now, and long cattle drives are a thing of the past. It used to cost you a dollar a head, and a few men's lives to drive to Abilene. Now, you can ship from here, and the beef goes direct to Chicago."

The old man's face flooded, and Cardigan felt pleased at this sign of his rising temper. "That sounds pretty, Cardigan ...but you ain't told it all."

"These men know without being told," Cardigan stated.

"Those blasted shorthorns mean fences... barbed-wire fences!" The old man took hold of his temper, and his voice went low and wicked. "Cardigan, you stood right here last month and told me to my face that you was goin' East to buy wire. I told you I'd kill you if you brought back a foot of it." Bitter Creek shifted his feet and glanced between Cardigan and Turkey Jack. Pete Kerry cleared his throat, the sound tearing the room's silence.

Cardigan took one step forward and brushed his coat away from the cedar b.u.t.t of his Smith and Wesson. "1 came back, Ackerman... and the wire is on its way. There's enough of it to fence ten thousand acres. Enough to keep your herd out of Mix Canon and the upper range beyond. Whatever arrangement you had before for winter graze in my high country is off now. I'm going to breed a herd of shorthorns, and I didn't pay a good price for them bulls to strengthen your herd." He watched the old man stiffen. "You're surprised, ain't you? You figured the Ackerman threat would stop me...well, it didn't!" Cardigan used his voice like a whip. "You're old and slow.. .bluff and brag. I'm wearing a gun tonight, and you know that you won't reach into that shoulder holster for yours.. .you don't want to die."

Pete Kerry sucked in his breath sharply, and Turkey Jack stepped away from the wall to face Bitter Creek squarely. He let his fingers curl around the bone handle of his cap-andball Colt. Bitter Creek watched him with a frozen-faced alertness. Moose Dugan growled something in his throat, and Miles Straight turned toward him, sliding his hand under his coat.

They stood there, frozen, with only the sawing of their breathing breaking the silence.

Cardigan spoke softly. "Give the word, old man, and we'll lace you with lead, you and your two hired guns."

Amos Ackerman licked his dry lips, and sagged against the wall. He spoke to Kerry and Straight. "All right. You've thrown in with this nester-lover. When 1 finish with him, I'm goin' to run you clean out of the state of Texas."

Pete Kerry's older boy spoke up. "You ain't runnin' him out tonight, loudmouth."

Ackerman swiveled his head to glare at him. "I'll remember you, sonny."

"Do that," the boy said, and grinned at him.

Amos Ackerman turned to Cardigan. "Your father and 1 always got along fine, ever since I moved to this country. I never thought I'd live to see the day when wire blocked the Leaning Seven from Sunrise graze." He drew a ragged breath. "I said nothing when you cut up that land above Devil's Gorge for these nesters. 1 made no move to drive them out."

"That's lucky for you," Cardigan said, "because 1'd have killed you for it."

The old man's eyes flickered. "Your dad would turn over in his grave if he knew you was givin' away land to these hoemen. He hated a nester."