Troublesome Range Part 15

But his answer lacked conviction. Joe stepped around him to face Whitey, whose pale-blue eyes were cloudy with mute rage as he stared venomously at Saygar.

"What about Clark?" Joe asked again.

Before Whitey could answer, Saygar reached out, laid a hand on Joe's arm, and jerked him roughly around. In that moment Joe knew only that Whitey had made an attempt to couple Clark's name with last night's raid on the herd at the head of Rainbow Gorge. His one and only thought was that these men had planned this mention of Clark's name for just such a circ.u.mstance, to confuse anyone who might connect them with the mounting trouble and be curious over their part in it. Here they were, four men who knew the answer he sought, trying to pin the guilt for their work on one of his best friends.

As Saygar's hold jerked him off balance, Joe was thinking this, and suddenly he knew he would get nothing from these men unless he beat it out of them. He used the side fall of his frame to add surprise to his staggering lurch against Saygar. His Stetson fell aground. He rammed the outlaw hard with his shoulder, the shock setting up a burst of pain in his head. But he ignored that, his hand blurring to holster as Saygar stumbled and sprawled awkwardly backward to the ground. Whitey reached for his gun, saw he was too late, and jerked his hand away from his side. Beyond the blond killer, Pecos, still hunkered by the fire, remained motionless.

Joe's glance whipped around to Reibel, to the gun arcing up into line with him. The expression of viciousness on Reibel's face was eloquent of his danger. He dodged, bringing his own gun into line. Reibel's .38 exploded deafeningly close. Joe felt the bullet's tug at the sleeve of his shirt and he squeezed the trigger of the Colt. He didn't hear his gun's explosion, only saw the front of Reibel's vest stir and the man driven backward in a wheeling fall. He didn't look at Reibel again. He didn't have to.

Saygar's spurs scuffed long marks across the gra.s.sy sod as the outlaw got his feet under him and slowly came erect. Whitey stood awkwardly stooped at the waist, having frozen in that posture at the beginning of his draw. Pecos, some of the color gone from his face, now moved out of line with Joe and Whitey.

"I ain't in on this, Bonnyman," he said hoa.r.s.ely.

Joe's look settled on Saygar. He was breathing heavily, waiting for the last aching throb of his head to subside. "Now what was it about Clark?" he said flatly, taking a stride that brought him within arm's reach of the outlaw. "Talk, Saygar," he drawled. "This crease you had put in my skull is just a scratch to the one I'll carve in yours if you don't open up. Who paid you to push that herd down the gorge?"

"You've got one thing wrong, Bonnyman." Saygar's glance went to the bandage on Joe's head. "No one of us did that. Unless . . ." He looked around at Whitey before asking: "When did it happen?"

"You sent a man after me that afternoon Clark and I got away from the cabin."

Saygar's anger seemed to vanish before the importance of denying this accusation. "You're wrong, Bonnyman. I didn't . . ."

Joe's knuckles slashing him across the mouth cut off his words. His head rocked around and blood welled from his mouth. "Talk while you're able, Saygar," Joe said. Again he struck, this time harder. His fist caught the outlaw along the jaw, tilting the man's head back.

Saygar's long, heavy arms came up. He made an ungainly attempt at knocking Joe's arm down, one that went wide of its mark. Joe hit him again, this time with his gun; it was a numbing short blow squarely on the thick muscle below Saygar's neck. The outlaw groaned and, a hand clamped to his shoulder, sank to his knees.

Whitey had watched all this closely. Now he thought he saw his chance and the hand he had held rigid, clear of his side, once more started toward his Colt. Joe let that hand reach the handle of the .45 before he rocked his gun around and shot. Whitey spun halfway around, right arm dropping limply. He cursed savagely as he clamped his good hand to the spreading stain of crimson on his right shoulder.

Joe stood, straddle-legged, above Saygar. "Who had you do it?" he said tonelessly. "Who had you push that herd down the gorge?"

Saygar seemed to sense then that the gun in Joe's hand was dangerous only as a club would have been, that Joe wouldn't shoot him before he talked. As he pushed erect, all the cunning and viciousness of the outlaw's nature came into play. A submissive look was on his face. He held up a hand.

"I've had enough," he whined. "Let me get my wind and . . ." He threw himself headlong at Joe, his long arms locking about Joe's waist, all the terrific power of his heavy shoulders tightening that bear-like hold. Joe's back arched. He tried to club Saygar alongside the head with the gun, but the man's skull was thrusting at his chest, too close to get in a telling blow. Joe forgot the gun and let it fall as he brought his knee up hard into Saygar's groin. The outlaw groaned in pain but his hold didn't slacken. Pain as sharp as a burn coursed down Joe's spine as his back muscles were wrenched. Again he brought his knee up; when that failed to break Saygar's back-breaking hold, he tramped hard on the outlaw's boots, twisting his heels.

Saygar's howl of pain echoed back from the trees. Suddenly his arms came loose and he sank to the ground, writhing in pain. Joe s.n.a.t.c.hed up his gun, seeing that Pecos had moved over to where Whitey sat and was reaching for the blond youth's Colt.

"You're next," he drawled, and advanced a step toward Pecos, who drew his hand quickly away from the .45.

From close to Joe's left came a gun's low-throated roar. A numbing shock paralyzed Joe's gun hand. The heavy Colt spun from his grasp. He wheeled, in time to see a stranger walk into the circle of firelight.

Alongside, Saygar said: "Nice work, Harper."

This was the Diamond foreman Blaze Coyle had spoken of with such open scorn and dislike. The mark of the killer was on Harper, Joe saw, for the man's hawkish, scarred face was as inscrutable as a rock slab, his pale-green eyes cloudy and expressionless. He held his gun carelessly, and, as he advanced toward Saygar, he drawled: "Thought you might want him whole, Mike."

With that casual proof of the expertness of Harper's aim, Joe knew he had lost. A moment later, Pecos had the groaning Whitey's .45 and Saygar was facing him, the light of cold fury in his eyes.

"Brother, let's see how fine you whittle down," Saygar said simply. Then he struck.

Joe took that first blow on the point of his turning shoulder, answering with a stiff uppercut that jarred Saygar to his boot heels. But the outlaw was sure of winning now. He merely shook his head to clear his reeling senses, and then came at Joe head down, slugging. And still Joe held him off, dodging the brutal drive of the outlaw's heavy fists, making the swift slashing of his own fists count. Two rapid jabs drove the wind from Saygar's lungs; another at the base of the neck threw him off balance. Joe was c.o.c.ked on toes, arm drawn back for a finishing looping right to the jaw, when Harper stepped in and calmly tripped him.

Saygar hit Joe as the latter's knees struck the ground, hit him with all the drive of his heavy body behind his rock-knuckled fist. A bright burst of light blotted out Joe's vision. From then on he didn't feel the blows. His arms fell to his sides and Saygar beat him into unconsciousness with the ease of a man whipping a child.

When Joe lay at his feet, bleeding from nose and mouth, Saygar motioned to Pecos. "Roll him over the bank," he ordered harshly.

"Looks like I hit here at about the right time," Harper drawled, the glance he directed down at Joe tinged with admiration. "Who is he?"

"Joe Bonnyman."

Harper whistled softly. "There's a reward out on him."

"You want to collect it?" Saygar asked savagely, for the knowledge that Joe would have licked him still rankled.

Harper shrugged. "Do it your way, Mike," he drawled, and watched Pecos lift Joe by the arms and drag him the thirty feet across to the edge of the high bank that dropped into the roiling waters of the Troublesome.

Pecos hesitated there, plainly disliking his job. Saygar came over and said sharply: "What're you waitin' on?" Only then did Pecos give a quick thrust of his boot that rolled Joe off the bank. He didn't look down to make sure of what happened but turned and, the color gone from his face, walked over to see what he could do for Whitey.

Saygar saw Joe's loosely rolling frame swallowed by the black waters of the creek. A wicked down-lipped grin touched his heavy features. "Wonder where they'll find him?" he asked Harper, and walked over to the fire.

Return from the Dead.

The numbing chill of the water brought Joe back to consciousness with a lung-constricting shock. He swallowed water and would have drowned but for the fact that his head rolled above the surface of the angry waters at that moment, letting his lungs suck in the air he was starving for. By the time his head went under again, he was enough aware of what was happening to him to hold his breath.

It seemed an eternity before he could command his muscles to move. He struck out feebly, trying to swim, but the strong current sucked him deeper under the surface. A jagged rock slashed the left side of his chest. One of his boots touched another rock. Panic hit him and his lungs seemed about to burst as he thrust out with that boot and again pushed his head above the water to catch two gasping breaths.

He managed to keep his head up this last time, only to find that he lacked the strength to fight the current. Time and again he would strike out for the looming shadow of the bank, but his arms flailed the foaming water with no visible effect. Once again, as he rolled onto his back, his head went under. He came up, gagging and coughing, at the fiery pain of water in his lungs. He glimpsed a rosy glow cutting the darkness far upstream, not then knowing that it was the light of the fire at Saygar's camp.

He fought now with a dull fear making him waste his strength. He felt that strength slowly going. At last he even lacked the energy to move his arms. When a wave sucked his head under, he didn't struggle against it. He relished the pleasing languor of exhaustion settling through him, wondering only what he would do when his lungs used up the last deep breath he had taken.

His lungs were beginning to crowd him again when, face down, his chest sc.r.a.ped the bottom. His first thought was that the current had sucked him under again. Instinct made him lift his head. It came above water and the tonic of the fresh, sweet air he drew into his lungs braced him.

Joe found himself lying belly down in a shallows where the water no longer moved in oily, fast-flowing swells but foamed whitely to each side, vaguely reflecting the sheen of starlight. He pushed himself up onto his knees and let the water foam about his thighs until his breathing came easier. Then, struggling to his feet, he started for the nearest bank. Once he stepped into a hole and went under, but now he had more strength, and three powerful strokes took him to the shallows again. He reached for the k.n.o.b of a boulder and pulled himself up. Standing once more, he waded to within reach of the bank, stumbled, let himself fall, and lay there for long minutes, his strength slowly building.

When he finally drew his legs from the water and looked about him, he saw that he was on the east bank of the creek at the point where he had earlier crossed on the bay. Out there in the darkness he could vaguely make out the shape of the mounded island that divided the stream into two channels. Getting his bearings further, he knew that he had less than a quarter mile walk to his bay. And, knowing that Saygar might not yet have found the horse, he got on his feet and started for the knoll on the far side of which lay the outlaw camp.

It hurt him to walk. The throb of his head was less painful than the cuts and bruises all along his body. Only now did he realize what punishment he had taken while struggling against the stream. His lips were puffed and swollen from the blow Saygar had struck, his jaw ached, and, when he breathed deeply, there was a pain deep in his chest.

The farther Joe walked the less urgent it became for him to find the bay and get out of here. Now that he could think rationally, he saw that he had gained an advantage over Saygar and Harper. They would naturally think him dead. Their vigilance would be relaxed. And when that thought came to him, he stopped abruptly, trying to figure out how best to use his advantage. When he went on again, he angled back in the direction of the Troublesome's low roar, so as to circle the foot of the knoll and come in on the camp from the south.

His first glimpse of the camp showed him Whitey stretched out on a blanket near the fire, his right shoulder bare, Pecos and Saygar kneeling beside him. A whiskey bottle lay on the ground nearby. Whitey's face was lined with pain and he winced sharply once as Pecos wrapped his bullet-punctured shoulder in a rag. Beyond the wounded man, farther toward the outer margin of firelight, lay Reibel's inert figure; his gun lay beyond one of the outstretched lifeless hands.

Harper stood across the fire from the others, his back to the near corner of the lean-to. He stood with one hand hanging, thumb hooked from his sagging sh.e.l.l belt, a cigarette drooping from his mouth, idly watching the attention Saygar and Pecos were giving the wounded man.

Joe was careful to take note of each detail, of the three saddles and the stack of grub against the back sloping wall inside the lean-to, of the coffee pot and Dutch oven on the fire. He tried hard to see into the lean-to's back corner but there the shadows were too dense. He wondered if there were any rifles in there, remembering now another item he had planned on settling when he rode in here. It concerned that telltale sign that marked the gun of the man who had tried to bushwhack him, the print of the scarred Winchester b.u.t.t plate Blaze had mentioned finding by the rock in the upper basin.

It took Joe a full five minutes to make his quarter circle of the camp and come down out of the trees toward the shadowy mound that was Reibel's body. He crawled the last twenty feet, his glance riveted on Harper, who faced his direction. The Diamond foreman still stood in that careless stance against the end of the lean-to.

Finally Joe lay behind Reibel's body. He was reaching over the dead man's chest, his hand groping for the gun, when he heard Saygar say: "How soon did he say Coyle would be here?" Harper pushed out from the lean-to and flicked the stub of his smoke into the fire. "He didn't say. It was to be sometime after dark. Only he was to come with Bonnyman. Maybe he won't show up now." Harper sauntered over and looked down at Whitey. "How you feelin', kid?"

"Like h.e.l.l." Whitey's look was bleak.

"It'll heal up," Harper said. "But it'll never work right again. You better take up another trade, friend."

The expression that came to the youth's face at that moment made it obvious how much deeper his wound had struck than the mere bone and flesh Joe's bullet had damaged. Tonight had seen him crippled more effectively than the loss of a leg would cripple a cowpoke. Whitey's life had been built around his skill with a gun. Now, with his right shoulder broken, his gun magic gone forever, he faced a future that was a void of despair.

Joe heard him say tonelessly: "Pa.s.s me the bottle, Mike." Saygar handed the bottle of whiskey across, and Whitey took three long swallows before he handed it back. Then, petulantly, he asked: "You goin' to leave me here?"

"You'll be in shape to sit a saddle by mornin'."

As Saygar drawled his casual answer, a look pa.s.sed between him and Harper. Had Whitey seen it, there would have been little doubt in his mind about what was to happen to him. In the morning, Joe knew, Saygar and Pecos would desert their crewman to whatever fate, good or bad, lay in store for him. It was the law of the pack and Joe had seen it work before; there was no room for a cripple.

Answering Saygar's glance with a barely perceptible nod, Harper hitched his Levi's higher along his waist and said: "Time for me to be goin'. We'll be through here later for that money, Mike."

"I'll be here."

Joe had a moment's panic, thinking Harper was coming toward him. He took a chance, coming up onto his knees and s.n.a.t.c.hing up Reibel's walnut-handled .45. He c.o.c.ked it and the hammer click brought Harper wheeling around to face the sound.

"Don't move," Joe spoke quietly, his voice barely audible above the persistent low roar of the nearby creek. Yet Saygar and Pecos both heard it-Saygar's thick upper body turning, Pecos straightening and staring with face slack with amazement.

For a moment Harper stood absolutely motionless. Then his hands slowly lifted to the level of his ears. Saygar likewise put up his hands. Pecos was too startled to move: It didn't matter, for he wore no weapon.

Joe stood up. "Whitey, reach for that iron and you'll never know what hit you." He advanced toward the wounded man as he spoke, his glance running between Whitey and the others. A moment later he was close enough to Whitey to reach out with the toe of his boot and kick away the sh.e.l.l belt and holstered gun that lay alongside the blanket.

He stooped, picked up the belt, and slung it over his shoulder. With a motion of his leveled .45, Saygar and Harper turned their backs. Joe stepped in behind them and uncinched their belts, looping them across his shoulder as he had the first.

"Saygar, where are your rifles?" he asked flatly.

"Where you hid 'em day before yesterday," was Saygar's immediate reply, "up there in the timber by the cabin. We couldn't find 'em."

Joe said-"Stay set."-and backed over to the lean-to. He stooped down, cast a quick glance inside that showed him no rifles, and came back around the fire again.

"Where's your horse, Harper?" he queried.

Harper made no answer. It was Saygar who said: "Out by the corral. Off there." He brought his hands down, motioning into the northward darkness.

"I'll be gone a minute," Joe drawled. "Maybe you better not move."

The rope corral lay half a dozen rods out from the camp. He walked fast in reaching it and at once spotted Harper's saddled horse tied along its near side. There was a rifle in a scabbard on the far side of the saddle, and Joe took it down. He saw Harper's silhouetted shape take a step out from the fire and levered a sh.e.l.l into the rifle, lined it, and put a bullet into the ground a foot ahead of the Diamond man. Harper stiffened and lifted his hands again, not moving a muscle.

Approaching the fire again, Joe drawled: "Funny, but I had you pegged for havin' some brains, Harper."

His pulse slowed as he rocked the rifle's b.u.t.t up and held it to the light. Then his hopes died. The b.u.t.t plate was of smooth steel, marked with rust but unscarred by any line that would fit Blaze's description of the bushwhacker's rifle.

Joe stood there a moment debating what to do next. Saygar's story of not having been able to find the hidden guns up by Hoelseker's cabin had carried a ring of truth. It would be a simple matter to check his story later, when there was more time. Harper's Winchester wasn't the one.

Then who was the man who had tried to kill him, in fact left him for dead? Joe's thinking hadn't gone beyond this point, this meeting with Saygar. He hadn't found the rifle and he didn't believe he could make Saygar talk. What was he to do now?

"You gents ought to eat well for the next few days," he said tonelessly. "The county's goin' to be buyin' your meals and . . ."

A sound out of the darkness to his left made him wheel in that direction, lifting the rifle to his shoulder. His muscles tightened at the expected slam of a bullet, for what he had heard off there was the hoof fall of a walking horse.

Abruptly the tension drained out of him at the sound of a voice that called: "That you, Joe? If it ain't, whoever it is better reach for the stars. I got a line on your belt buckle!"

Joe lowered his rifle. "Come on in, Blaze."

Half a minute later, the red-headed Anchor foreman was standing alongside him, a wide grin slashing his homely face.

"Now ain't this a nice catch," Blaze drawled, eying the trio standing before him, the dead man, and the wounded outlaw. His look came around finally to Joe and he was visibly shocked at what he saw, his friend's bruised face and cut and swollen lips, the torn Levi's exposing a blood-reddened thigh, Joe's still wetly clinging shirt.

He holstered his gun, unb.u.t.toned one cuff, and began rolling his sleeve. "Which one do I take on first?" he demanded, "None, Blaze," said Joe. "We'll take 'em down to Yace. He'll do a better job."

"Yace! You go in there? Man, don't you know Yace has been h.e.l.lin' around up here most of the day on your trail?"

"Then you'll take them in." Joe was looking at Harper and Saygar, seeing the outlaw's face set doggedly in an impa.s.sive way, Harper's in a faint arrogant smile. When he added-"I hope they'll give them a chance to talk before they string 'em up."- the gunman's smile faded.

Waiting for Trouble.

The rider was close, entering the yard, before Ruth Merrill recognized him in the light of the lantern at the gate. It was Clark Dunne.

She turned from the window and stood a moment debating what to do, her pulse stirring to a quicker beat. In that brief interval, alone, her face mirrored the swift run of her thoughts in a sharp, calculating way. When she finally went to the door and stepped out to call him before he turned down to the corral, the look on her face was serene.

She told him-"I've been hoping you'd come back tonight."- as he came out of the saddle at the foot of the porch steps. Then, haltingly, she said: "Clark . . . I . . . I've been thinking."

Ignoring her words, he came on up the steps. He took her in his arms, kissing her on the lips and resisting the pressure her arms made to draw away. When he let her go, she laughed nervously and pretended to smooth down her flawlessly brushed hair.

"Clark! What if one of the men should see?"

"What if they should?" Clark's face was handsome under its smile as the lamplight from the open door struck it. He put his arm around her waist. "And now what were you thinking?"

She went serious, looking up at him with her head c.o.c.ked to one side. It was a glance at once appealing and tender. "It's only this, Clark. Dad might not . . . might not have known what he was saying last night. It doesn't seem right that we should be getting married so soon after . . ."

She paused there, letting her thought complete itself.

He let his arm fall abruptly and stepped back from her, trying to see beneath her expression. "You've heard about Joe, haven't you?" he asked.

Her air of coquetry vanished before a run of cool aloofness. His insight had destroyed the calculated edge of her approach and he had his answer when she said accusingly: "What about Joe? Why would that make a difference?"

Something in him hardened. "Suit yourself about the weddin'," he said, for a moment forgetting that this independence in him was neither wise nor diplomatic.