The Chick Bowdrie Short Stories Bundle Page 12

  “It was you didn’t want me to accuse young Culver. Looks different when the shoe’s on the other foot.”

  The two moved off, still talking. Chick sat quietly. No bank robbery had been reported to the Rangers, yet this seemed to be an inside job, embezzlement rather than a hold-up. His curiosity aroused, he arose and sauntered back into the restaurant. “How’s about some more coffee? I sure like your make of it. Strong enough to tan your boots!”

  The ex-cow-camp cook brought a cup and the pot to the table. “I oughta know how a cowhand likes it,” he said. “I’ve made coffee enough to drown a thousand head of steers!”

  He dropped into the chair across from Bowdrie. He looked at the rider across the table, the dark, Apache-like face and black eyes—it was like looking into a pair of gun muzzles. “Huntin’ a ridin’ job?” Josh Chancy asked.

  “Maybe. Anybody doin’ any hirin’ around?”

  “Newcomer, name of Yerby, is buyin’ a lot of stock. Plans a drive to Abilene in another month or so. Big man, pays well, free with his money. He’s bought nigh onto four thousand head, an’ payin’ durn near what they pay in Kansas!”

  “Might be a good man to work for. Newcomer, you say? What’s he look like?”

  “Big. Mighty good-lookin’ man. Smooth-handed man, plays a good game of poker an’ usually wins. White hat, black coat, black mustache. He’s been courtin’ Lisa Culver, seems like. Leastways he’s been seein’ her a lot.”

  “Culver? Didn’t there used to be a Black Jack Culver?”

  “He was her pappy. Good man, too. I worked beside him for more’n a year. His boy’s a fine lad, too. He’s no rider, but he’s bright, got good sense. But that gal? She’s the best-lookin’ filly this side the Brazos!”

  Josh liked to talk, and the place was empty but for Bowdrie. “Young Bill, he works over at the bank for Lindsay. He’s been sparkin’ that girl of Mendoza’s. Don’t know’s I blame him, but she’s a fancy, flirty bit, but she’s got a temper worse than Mendoza’s, an’ nobody ever accused Pete of bein’ no tenderfoot. He’s a brush-wise old ladino, that Pete Mendoza is!”

  The door opened suddenly and Lindsay stuck his head in. “Josh, have you seen Yerby? Or Bill Culver? If they come in, tell ’em I want to see them, will you?”

  Chick Bowdrie sipped his coffee. It might be a good idea to stick around a day or two, for the situation smelled of trouble.

  He pushed back from the table and sauntered outside to resume his seat under the awning. The roan opened a lazy eye and studied him doubtfully, but when he seated himself again, the eye closed and the roan stomped at an annoying fly. They would not be moving yet.

  Maravillas was a one-street town with a row of false-fronted, wind-battered buildings facing each other across the narrow, dusty street. The fourth building across the street had a sign: “maravillas bank.”

  A girl came out of the bank and started up the street toward him. She was dark and her eyes flashed as she glanced at Chick. It was a bold, appraising glance. She had a lovely, passionate mouth and a free-swinging movement of the hips, and a body her clothing enhanced rather than concealed. A girl who, in this hot border country, was an invitation to murder.

  A young man came from the bank and stared after the girl. Bowdrie could not see his expression. The young man turned and walked to a stable behind the bank. From where Bowdrie sat he could just see the edge of the stable door and part of a window. He saw Bill Culver swing a saddle to a horse’s back.

  Soon after, Bill Culver crossed the street and went into the restaurant, emerging with a small package.

  A moment later Tom Lindsay went into the bank. Ross Yerby, or a man Bowdrie guessed was Yerby, came down the street and followed Lindsay into the bank. Instantly voices were raised in violent argument. One was Lindsay’s voice, the other was Culver’s. If Yerby was speaking, his voice could not be heard.

  Bowdrie saw Yerby come from the bank and cross the street toward him. Chick stood up, pushing back his black flat-crowned hat. “Mr. Yerby? I hear you figurin’ on makin’ a drive to Abilene. You need any hands?”

  Yerby had a quick, sharp eye. He took in Bowdrie at a glance, noting the tied-down guns. “I can use a few men. Have you been over the trail?”

  “I’ve been over a lot of trails, both sides of the border.”

  Yerby hesitated, then asked, “Do you know the Nation? And the Cowhouse Creek just north of here?”

  “I do.”

  “Stick around. I can use you.”

  Bowdrie dropped back into his chair. He was still seated there an hour later when he heard the shot. He was not surprised.

  The sudden bark of the pistol struck like a whip across the hot, still afternoon.

  Men burst from the café, the saloon, and several stores and stood looking and listening. Bowdrie remained sitting. From the grove back of the bank he heard the drum of horse’s hooves, a sound that faded into silence.

  Bowdrie slid from his chair and followed King Cowan into the bank.

  Tom Lindsay lay sprawled on the floor. He had been shot through the heart at close range. The rear door of the bank stood open. Glancing through the door, Chick saw no horse in sight. His dark features inscrutable, he stood by as Wilse Kennedy, the sheriff, took charge. “Where’s young Culver?” Kennedy asked. “He should be here.”

  A head thrust through the rear door. “His horse is gone, Wilse! Must’ve been him we heard ridin’ away!”

  “Culver had a motive,” Cowan agreed. “Tom was tellin’ me only this mornin’ that twenty thousand dollars had been stolen from the bank, and that only him an’ young Culver knew the combination to the safe.”

  “Must be him, then.” Kennedy looked around from face to face. “Lindsay must have accused him of it, and Culver shot him down. He wouldn’t have run if he wasn’t guilty.”

  “Don’t be too hard on the boy,” Ross Yerby interrupted. “Bill’s all right. I doubt if he’d do a thing like this. There’s probably a good explanation for his not bein’ here.”

  Bowdrie caught Yerby’s eye and commented, “There’s somethin’ to that. Can’t never tell by the way things look on the surface.”

  “What’s that? Who said that?” Kennedy looked around at Chick, his eyes narrowing. “Who’re you?”

  “He rides for me,” Yerby explained. “I took him on today.”

  “You punch your cows”—Kennedy was sharp—“I’ll do the sheriffin’.” He turned to Cowan. “Did you say twenty thousand was missing? How come he had that much cash?”

  “I paid him some of it,” Yerby said, “and some may have been Cowan’s. I bought cattle from him, too.”

  “Well, let’s get after him!” Kennedy said. “King, you mount up and come along. I can use you, too, Yerby.” Kennedy spoke to several others, ignoring Bowdrie, who stood looking down at the body. Familiar as he was with violent death, it never failed to disturb him that a man could be so suddenly deprived of life. Guns were something not to be taken lightly, but to be handled with care and used with discrimination.

  Instead of following the posse outside, he went out the back door. He had a hunch and acted on it. Bill Culver had been accused of stealing twenty thousand dollars. He had been seen saddling a horse. The banker was killed after a quarrel with Culver overheard by a number of people, and now Culver was missing. It appeared to be an open-and-shut case.

  Bowdrie’s hunch was no more than that. Among other things, he was sure the posse had ridden off in the wrong direction, for he was sure Bill would ride around to see his sister. Moreover, if his hunch was right, there would be action in town before many hours were past.

  Bill Culver’s horse was gone, that was obvious. Chick glanced around, then walked behind the stable. In the dust lay the stub of a freshly smoked cigarette. He put it in a folder in an inside vest pocket. Then he went back across the street to the Bon Ton Café for coffee.

  “You didn’t ride with the posse?” Josh asked.

  “No, I didn’t. I think they’re chasin
’ the wrong man, Josh. Culver sizes up as an unlikely killer.”

  “Ain’t no better boy around!” Josh said belligerently. “I don’t believe he done it!”

  The door burst open and a lovely blond girl came in. “Josh! Is it true? Did Bill shoot Tom Lindsay?”

  Bowdrie looked around. “They say he did, ma’am. They say he took twenty thousand dollars. He’s gone and his horse is gone.”

  “He couldn’t have!” she protested. “That’s not like Bill! He wouldn’t do a thing like that!”

  The door opened and a short, thick-set man entered. He had a hard, swarthy face and black eyes that swept the room. “Lisa, where’s Bill?” he asked.

  “I have no idea, Señor Mendoza! They are saying he killed Tom Lindsay!”

  “So? My Rita has gone. She has run away.”

  Lisa Culver was shocked. Chick took a quick swallow of his coffee, eyes shifting from face to face. They all had jumped to the same conclusion, that Culver had robbed the bank, killed Lindsay, and run away with Rita Mendoza.

  Mendoza turned on his heel and left the room. Bowdrie stared after him. What would Mendoza do?

  Lisa stood a moment in indecision, then fled. Chick sipped his coffee. “Busy little place,” he commented. “Things happen fast around here.”

  He put his cup down. “Yerby buy cattle from anybody but Cowan an’ Lindsay?”

  “Huh?” Josh glanced around irritably, obviously upset by what had happened. “Oh? Yeah, I reckon he did. He bought a few head off old Steve Farago, over at Wild Horse. Five hundred head, I think it was.”

  Chick finished his coffee, then crossed to the bank. The white-faced clerk who had taken over was filled with importance. At first he refused Bowdrie’s request point-blank, but at a flash of the Ranger badge, Bowdrie was given the information he wanted.

  Swinging aboard the roan, Bowdrie headed out of town. Wild Horse Mesa was sharply defined against the horizon.

  He would have preferred to stop at the Culvers’, but decided against it. Later, returning from Wild Horse, would be soon enough.

  Shadows were reaching out from the high cliffs of the mesa when Bowdrie loped the roan into the ranch yard. “Hello, the house!” he called.

  There was a sudden movement inside, a crash as of a broken dish. Bowdrie dropped from the saddle and started for the house, walking warily. There was no further sound. Nor was there any horse around but the three rawboned ponies in the corral.

  Bowdrie hesitated on the doorstep, then stepped to the side of the door. It was black and still inside.

  “Hey!” he yelled again.

  There was no response, and no sound. Chick eased his right-hand gun in its holster and edged toward the door. A hinge creaked out back, and Bowdrie leaped through the door in time to catch a glimpse of a dark shadow at the back door. Then a gun flashed, and he hit the floor, losing the heel from one of his boots.

  He did not fire. There was simply no target, and Chick Bowdrie was not one to blaze away on the sheer chance that he might hit something. He got to his feet and edged toward the back door. The ranch yard was shadowy and still, with neither sound nor movement. It was almost dark outside now, and looking for a man in that rough country in the dark would be suicide.

  He turned back, and, his eyes becoming accustomed to the vague light, he peered around. He could see but a few things.

  A chair lay on its side, and there was scattered bedding. He gambled and struck a light, keeping out of line of either windows or doors. Then he lit a candle.

  The body of a man he assumed to be Steve Farago lay sprawled on the floor. His pockets were turned inside out. The old man had been murdered with two bullets through the chest, then thoroughly searched.

  The bed had been upset and the mattress jerked off the wooden slats. Several pots had been opened, their contents scattered. Somebody had known that Farago had money and had murdered and robbed him. But had they robbed him? Or had Bowdrie arrived before the job was complete?

  Chick dropped beside the body. He unbuttoned the shirt and unfastened the old man’s belt. He found what he half-expected—a money belt. Unsnapping a pocket of the belt, Chick dug out a flat packet of bills. Hesitating only an instant, he took three bills from the packet, one from the top, one from the bottom, one from the middle. Returning the packet to the belt, he snapped the pocket shut, rebuckled the belt, and buttoned the shirt. Stepping around the can of spilled flour, Bowdrie blew out the candle, got into the saddle, and took the road for Maravillas, but switching to a roundabout route that would bring him down behind the Culver ranch, on the very edge of town.

  Dismounting from the roan, he walked up through the yard. Two horses, bridled and saddled, waited behind the barn. One was the horse Bill Culver had ridden away from the bank.

  Holding to the shadows, he got around the barn, ducking across the open yard to the wall of the house. Gently he lifted the latch on the door. It opened under his hand, and he went in on cat feet. The kitchen was dark. A crack of light showed under the door, beyond which he heard a murmur of voices. Suddenly there was a touch of cold steel behind his ear, and he froze in place.

  “Now!” It was Pete Mendoza’s voice. “You will open the door. One wrong move and this pistol, she speak!”

  Chick opened the door with the gun at his back and stepped into the next room, his hands lifted.

  Bill Culver started to his feet. The others in the room were Lisa Culver and Rita Mendoza.

  “What’s going on, Pete? Who is this man?” Bill asked.

  “I don’t know. He sneak in, so I catch him.”

  “If you’ll put away that gun, we can sit down and talk. I’d suggest we get it over with before that posse figures out where you are.”

  “Who are you? What do you want?” Bill demanded.

  “I’m Chick Bowdrie. I ride for the Rangers.”

  “Oh, Bill!” Lisa exclaimed. “The Rangers! What can you do now?”

  “It won’t make any difference! Rangers or no Rangers, I am not going to die for a killing I didn’t do!”

  “Suppose you all hold your horses,” Bowdrie replied mildly. “I haven’t said I was hunting you, have I? Don’t make trouble for me and get the Rangers on your tail. You have trouble enough without that.”

  “If you don’t want me, what are you doing here?”

  “Oh, sort of figurin’ things out, only I was afraid you’d run away before I got things straightened out. You ain’t in no trouble now you can’t get out of.”

  “No trouble!” Rita’s eyes flashed. “What you call trouble? He is wanted for robbing and killing! We must run away to Mejico for the marriage!”

  Bowdrie shrugged. “Must be mighty excitin’ to have two such pretty girls worried over a man.” He glanced at Pete Mendoza. “This marriage all right with you?”

  Pete shrugged. “No, not at once. After I hear there is trouble, yes. My daughter is my daughter. If she wants this man, and if she marry with him, all is well. If they are in trouble? Well, I have been in trouble, too!”

  Bowdrie glanced at Bill. “You can unsaddle those horses. There’s no need to run away. Before sundown tomorrow, you will be a free man … or married,” he added, smiling. “On the other hand, better keep the horses saddled. Pete and I can ride into town with you. We can all stay in the hotel until morning, and then we will get all this straightened out.”

  “They’d kill me!” Bill protested. “Yerby told me there was a lot of hard feeling in town.”

  “You saw Yerby? He wasn’t with the posse?”

  “He and King Cowan left the posse, then they split up. Cowan rode across country to see Farago, and Yerby cut back here to see me.”

  “What did he want to see you about?”

  “He wanted to help. He thinks a lot of Lisa and he wanted to see if I had money enough to get out of the country. You see, he knew I was quitting the bank before the killing of Tom Lindsay. He’s been pretty nice.”

  “All right, let’s get into town.” He turned to Lis
a. “I’d come along, if I were you. I doubt if there will be trouble. We will beat the posse back to town.”

  When the girls and Bill Culver were safely in the Maravillas Hotel, Bowdrie turned to Mendoza. “Stay with them. I’ve work to do.”

  The street was dark and still. It was past midnight and the little cow town’s people had found their way to bed. By six o’clock the next morning it would be awake and busy, stores would all be open by seven, and out on the range the cowhands would have been at work for two to three hours.

  Bowdrie moved to the chair he had occupied earlier and settled down to wait. The chair sat in complete darkness, and from that vantage point Bowdrie could view the whole street.

  The only place showing a light was the saloon, where the posse, which had ridden in shortly before, were having a few to “cut the dust,” as the saying was.

  Chick was tired. It had been a long day. Yet more was to come, and he had a feeling about it. He hitched himself around in his chair to leave his gun ready to hand. His eyes scanned the buildings across the street. The bank was dark and still, its windows staring with wide, blind eyes into the street.

  Almost an hour passed before his ear caught a faint noise that might have been a hoof clicking on stone. He slid from the chair and crossed the street and vanished between two of the frame buildings.

  At first he could see nothing; then his eyes caught a slight movement toward the rear of the bank, then a faint clink of metal. Bowdrie stepped forward quickly and inadvertently kicked a pebble, which rattled on a loose board. Instantly, flame stabbed from a gun at the rear of the bank.

  Bowdrie fired in return, and glimpsed the dark figure of a man lunge toward the barn. Chick fired again, but as he squeezed off his shot, the running man stumbled and fell, rolled over, and vanished around the barn. Bowdrie followed, running. A hastily fired bullet kicked up dust at his feet; then there was a clatter of hooves and he rounded the corner of the barn in time to see a horseman vanish into the trees.

  Limping because of his lost boot heel, Bowdrie went back to his chair. Toward daylight he got up and went to the hotel, realizing there was small chance the unknown man would return.