The Chick Bowdrie Short Stories Bundle Page 6

  Waiting approximately as long as Roberts had, Chick rode into the cleft.

  It grew narrower and narrower, until at one point the sides of his boots rubbed the rock on either wall; then it widened again, and far ahead he could see the girl riding into a green and lovely box canyon. Beyond, there was a clump of cottonwoods and a small cabin. There was a corral, and in the corral, several horses.

  Instinct told him what horses these were, and with that realization came a heightened sense of danger. Roberts was just ahead, spurring now to catch the girl.

  Bowdrie turned sharply away from the notch and skirted the canyon, keeping to the brush but riding fast. He dismounted behind a ramshackle barn and eased himself to the corner. Peering around, he saw four horses in the corral.

  The Morgan horses! Then Roberts … He heard voices, Murray Roberts’ voice. “How’d you know about this place?” he was demanding.

  “I saw you riding here. Later, I saw him coming here. I had no idea what was here, but I had to find out.”

  “Now you’ve found out, you’d better get, an’ quick! If he finds you here, he’ll kill you.” He was silent for a moment, then added, “Meg, let’s you an’ me cut out. Nobody’s got a chance with him around! He killed—”

  “Who did I kill?”

  The voice was so close that Bowdrie started as if stung. Then he realized the voice came from the barn behind which he was hiding.

  “Rack!” Roberts was startled. “I thought—!”

  “You thought I was back at the ranch!” Rack Herman moved out of the barn, walking toward them. “You didn’t think I’d have a hideout without two ways in an’ out, did you?”

  He moved closer to them. “Murray, you’re a weak sister! I’ve seen this comin’ and knew I’d have you to kill. You’re no good to me, anyway, and I’ve got the old man right where I want him, and it’s time to clean house. I’ve already taken care of Peters, and now you.”

  Murray Roberts went for his gun and was too slow by half. Rack Herman put three bullets over his belt buckle before Roberts’ gun had cleared its holster.

  Rack Herman thumbed shells from his belt, but before he could load, Bowdrie stepped from behind the barn. “Drop it, Rack! Drop it right where you are and then move back!”

  Rack let the gun slip from his fingers and moved back away from it. “If you didn’t have that gun, I’d …!”

  What made him do it, Bowdrie never knew, but he unbuckled his gunbelt and handed it to Meg. “Don’t shoot unless it is to save yourself. Maybe I’m a damned fool, but I’ve got this to do.”

  She took the guns, and Rack moved toward him, sure of himself now. As they came together, Bowdrie stabbed a left to Herman’s face, but the man took the blow and kept coming, very sure of himself.

  A smashing blow caught Bowdrie in the ribs and a clubbing right caught his jaw and started bells ringing in his skull. He felt himself falling, heard Rack’s grunt of satisfaction.

  His knees hit the dust and then Bowdrie came up as Rack closed in. Bowdrie hooked hard to the side of the face, twisted away, and stabbed a left to the heavier man’s mouth, drawing blood.

  Herman could punch unbelievably fast. He caught Bowdrie with a left and right, but Bowdrie’s right caught Herman on the chin. Yet how he got through the next few minutes, he never knew. Blows rained on his head, jaw, and shoulders, yet he stayed on his feet, taking them and fighting back. Through his befogged brain an idea penetrated. Battered though he was, Bowdrie realized that Rack was gasping for breath.

  Powerful as he was, and amazingly fast for such a heavy man, Herman was carrying a huge weight and the sun was hot. Bowdrie, dried by desert suns and winds, was lean as an ironwood tree and just as resilient. No doubt Herman had won most of his fights with a blow or two, but Bowdrie had soaked up what punishment he could give and was still on his feet.

  Through the fog in his brain and the taste of blood in his mouth, Chick knew he could win. Hurt though he was, he drew on some well of desperation within him and began to punch.

  Left, right, left, right, blow after battering blow pounded the huge body and the brutal face. His arms were weary from just punching, but Herman’s mouth was hanging open as he gasped for every breath.

  Stepping away, he feinted, and as the heavier man’s hands came up, he threw a low hard right to the midsection. Then, weaving to avoid the pawing blows, he threw blow after blow to the heavy body. Then there was nobody in front of him and hands were grabbing him.

  “Stop it, man! You’ll kill him! Stop it!”

  They pulled him back, and Rack Herman lay on the ground against the barn wall, his face bloody and battered.

  Jack Darcy and Rainy were there, holding him back from the man he had come so far to find, Rack Herman, the man who had once called himself Carl Dyson. Bowdrie knew he would have to look no further for the saddle he had hoped to find.

  He shook his head to clear it of the last of the dwindling fog. He stared at Rainy. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’d been wanting to marry Jack’s sister,” Rainy explained, “but Dan Lingle beat me out. He was a good man and I held no grudge, but I came on to find Darcy. I knew her murderer was somewhere around.”

  “That was only one murder. There was another in Texas.” He took his gunbelt from Meg and slung it about his shoulders. “I’d no business doing this”—he gestured at Herman, who was being helped to his feet by Darcy—“but the man’s arrogance kind of got under my skin.”

  “He had it coming,” Rainy agreed, “but he’ll live long enough to hang.”

  Holding their prisoner, they walked toward the corral. The Morgans were waiting, heads up, alert.

  “After you get those horses back where they belong,” Darcy suggested, “why don’t you come back? There’s a lot of good cattle country around here.”

  Bowdrie slapped the dust from his hat. “I’m a Ranger,” he said, “and there’s always work for a Ranger. Come to one trail’s end, and there’s always another. I kind of like it that way.”

  A Trail to the West

  Chick Bowdrie stared into the muzzle of the six-gun. His dark features showed no expression, but behind the black eyes there was an urge to draw and take his chance.

  He had lived by the gun long enough to know that a wise man does not take such chances with the kind of man who was holding the six-shooter. He was a tall man with rounded shoulders and a narrow gray-skinned face, an unhealthy face on a man who had been out of the sunlight for some time.

  “What’s the matter, partner?” Bowdrie inquired. “What makes you so jumpy?”

  “Who are you? Where you headin’?”

  “Me?” Chick inquired innocently. “I’m just a driftin’ cowhand, ridin’ the grub-line. I’m called Sam Dufresne.”

  “What are you ridin’ up in the trees for? The trail’s down yonder.”

  “Now an’ again a man finds that trails aren’t healthy. You know what I mean or you wouldn’t be so touchy. I had an idea I wouldn’t meet any travelers up here, an’ it would give me a chance to have a look at who is ridin’ the trail. Maybe see them before they saw me.”

  “Meanin’ that you’re on the dodge?” The man holding the gun was beginning to relax. He was puzzled but cautious.

  “Now, that’s a leadin’ question,” Bowdrie said, “but bein’ behind that gun gives you the right to ask it. If you weren’t holdin’ that gun, you might hesitate to ask any such question.”

  The round-shouldered man’s eyes glinted with sudden anger. “So?” The muzzle tilted just a bit, and Bowdrie was ready. If he died, he wasn’t going to die alone. His own gun was only inches from his hand.

  “Hold it, Hess!” The branches of a juniper pushed forward and a man came out of the trees to stand facing Bowdrie. Here was a danger, perhaps more deadly than the gun at his head. He also knew he had found who he was looking for.

  The newcomer was big; a leonine head topped a thick, muscular neck and massive shoulders. He had small feet and hands for his b
ulk, and a square-cut face tight-skinned and tanned. His eyes were pale, almost white. This was John Queen.

  “Howdy,” Bowdrie said. “I’m glad you spoke up. I hate to get killed or kill a man this early of a mornin’.”

  John Queen studied him with cool, appraising eyes. “I would say if any killin’ was done, he’d be apt to do it.”

  “Maybe,” Bowdrie admitted, “but things ain’t always the way they seem. He might kill me, but I’d surely kill him.”

  “You’d have to be a mighty fast hand with that gun,” Queen said, “an’ there’s not many who could do that—if anybody could do it.”

  Queen glanced at the horse and saddle, and looked again at Bowdrie’s twin guns. “You say your name is Sam Dufresne. I can count the men who could draw that fast on the fingers of one hand, and none of them would be named like you.”

  “Could be there’s somebody new in the picture,” Bowdrie suggested.

  “You ain’t Billy the Kid because you’re too big and you don’t have those two buck teeth. You’re too slim and tall for John Wesley Hardin, and your hair’s the wrong color for any of the Earps, but I’ll come up with a name for you. Just give me time.”

  Turning to the other man, he said, “Put your gun away, Hess. I want to talk to this man.” He motioned with his head. “Come on into camp, whatever your name is.”

  Three men sat around the fire when Chick Bowdrie stepped down from his strawberry roan. As he stripped the saddle from his long-legged, ugly horse he mentally cataloged them from his memory of the Ranger’s bible, which carried descriptions of most of the wanted men in the Southwest.

  The lean, hungry-looking man with the knife scar would be Jake Murray, wanted in San Antone for a killing and in Uvalde for bank robbery. The other two were Eberhardt and Kaspar, rustlers and horse thieves from the Pecos country. Without discounting the danger in Eberhardt, Kaspar, and Hess, the real trouble here was in Jake Murray and John Queen.

  He did not look around, for there would be danger in that. If the girl was here, he would see her sooner or later. Above all, he must not seem curious or even aware anybody else was here, if indeed she was here in this camp.

  “Where y’ headin’?” Queen asked when Bowdrie was seated with a cup of coffee in his hand.

  “The Davis Mountains. Maybe Fort Stockton. If it doesn’t look friendly, I’ll just keep ridin’ out to Oak Creek Canyon. I’m huntin’ a place to lay up for the winter.”

  “You ain’t Jesse Evans,” Queen said, “although you’ve something of his look.”

  Bowdrie sipped his coffee. John Queen was too knowing, and if this continued he was going to come up with an answer. So far the Earps were the only peace officers mentioned, but if he started on Texas Rangers, he would not be long in coming up with an answer. Bowdrie was new to the outfit, but he had already made a name for himself.

  “What the hell?” Bowdrie said. “You boys are all right. You’ve probably never heard of me, anyway. My name’s Shep Harvey.”

  It was a gamble, of course. There was a possibility one of these men knew Shep Harvey, a gunman who had come from the Missouri River country and was riding with King Fisher’s outfit. Harvey had come to Texas only a few weeks before, after killing a gambler in Natchez. He had been a cowhand and buffalo hunter in the Dakotas, had held up a stage on the Deadwood run, and killed a sheriff in Yankton who tried to make an arrest.

  John Queen looked relieved. “No wonder I couldn’t place you. How come you’re down in this country?”

  “Lookin’ for a place to hole up for the winter,” Bowdrie said. “I’m tired of runnin’. I want to put my feet under the same table for a while an’ sort of rest up.”

  “Heard of you,” Murray admitted. “Didn’t you have some trouble in Laredo?”

  “Some.” Chick leaned back against a rock. He was riding a dangerous trail, he knew that. If these men discovered who he was, they would kill him without hesitation. They were all wanted men, and doubly so now. They had much to lose and nothing to gain by keeping him around. All they needed was an excuse. Somehow he had to locate the girl and get her away from them.

  It had started three weeks earlier. Five hard-bitten men had ridden up to the lonely ranch of Clinton Buck on the South Canadian. Buck had gone to the door in answer to their hail, and died in a burst of gunfire. They had given no warning, no chance.

  Old Bart Tendrel had come from the corral, only to be shot down in his tracks. Then they had taken the girl, what riding stock was available, and what money was in the house, and headed west, out of Texas.

  McNelly had sent for Chick Bowdrie. “This is a job for a man who knows the outlaw trails, Bowdrie, and it’s a one-man job. If we go after them with a bunch of Rangers, they will simply kill that girl. Somehow we have to get her away from them before the final verdict.

  “We’ve got Damon Queen coming up for sentencing, and Judge Whiting is Jeanne Buck’s uncle and he raised her from a baby whilst her father was off buffalo hunting. John Queen has gotten word to Whiting that if his decision is wrong, the girl dies. Clinton Buck was no kin to the judge, but the girl is. The old judge loves that girl like she was his own. You go get her back.”

  The wind whined through the junipers, moaning like a lost dog. “Sounds like rain,” Queen said, “and we don’t need that.”

  He looked over at Bowdrie. “How far to Oak Creek, Shep?”

  “Not too far. There’s a good hideout there. A friend of mine told me about a gent who has a ranch over thataway.”

  Eberhardt started dishing up the food and Jake Murray walked back into the trees, and when he returned, a girl was walking ahead of him. She was a shapely girl with auburn hair. She glanced at Bowdrie, then looked away.

  “Friend of ours goin’ west with us,” John Queen explained.

  Chick betrayed no interest. “Lots of folks movin’ these days,” he commented.

  They moved out at sunup and there had been no chance for him to speak to the girl or to give her any hint that would have her alert and ready. One thing he discovered quickly. The girl had spirit. At breakfast it showed itself clearly when Hess idly dropped a hand to her shoulder.

  Jeanne turned sharply, catching up the knife beside her plate. “Keep your filthy hands off me! You put another hand on me and I’ll cut it off!”

  Bob Hess jerked his hand back, and the other outlaws laughed. Hess’s face reddened with anger and he started for the girl, when Queen spoke.

  “Set down, Bob!” he commanded. “You asked for it. Now, you keep your hands to yourself!”

  Jeanne resumed her seat, in no way disturbed, the knife ready at hand. She was reaching for the coffeepot when her eyes met Chick’s. He lowered one eyelid and took a mouthful of beans. Then, in case he had been seen, he rubbed his eye.

  Chick Bowdrie was a man virtually without illusions. His boyhood had been a hard one and he had narrowly missed becoming an outlaw himself. It was only Captain McNelly who made the difference. Unknown to him, the Ranger captain, always alert for promising material, had been watching him for some time.

  A top hand on any outfit, Bowdrie was simply too good with a gun, and sooner or later he was going to kill the wrong man and become an outlaw. He had had several minor brushes with the law, none of them justified and none leading to gunplay, but there were too many around who thought themselves fast. McNelly knew from his own observations and those of some of his older, wiser men that Bowdrie was simply too good.

  “Cap,” one of his sergeants had said, “recruit the kid. He’s one of the best trackers around, he’s got good sense, nobody stampedes him, and he’s so much better with a gun than any other man I know, that there’s no comparison.

  “He’s instinctively a good shot, he’s very cool, and he’s been born with remarkable coordination and eyesight. He’s got the makings for a Ranger if I ever saw one, and frankly, I’d rather have him on our side.”

  To use a gun well was one thing; to know when to use it was another.

  Chi
ck Bowdrie knew the odds were against him in every way. He was miles from Texas and the jurisdiction of the Rangers. Some law officers extended courtesy and worked with others; some resented any intrusion into their area. Whatever happened, he must handle himself.

  Hess hated him. It was an instinctive and bitter hatred, and Bowdrie’s certainty that he could get off a shot before Hess could kill him, rankled.

  They rode out of the scattered junipers now and followed a long, grassy bottom toward distant hills. Chick was remembering a canyon north of their route where cliff dwellers had built their houses under the overhang of the cliffs.

  It was something to remember. If he could get Jeanne Buck away, it would be only the beginning. They were almost five hundred miles west of the Texas line—he could only guess at the exact distance.

  Once he got her away, if he could, he would have to exercise jurisdiction with a six-shooter and a Winchester.

  Several times when he looked up he caught Bob Hess staring at him, eyes ugly with hatred.

  Eberhardt and Kaspar seemed to have no great interest in him, but Jake Murray was a morose, silent man who went through life with a chip on his shoulder. Several of the killings for which he was known had simply resulted from minor slights that many a man would have passed over. He was extremely touchy.

  Hess might bring danger upon him, but it was Jake Murray and John Queen whom he would have to face at the showdown.

  The little cavalcade wound around the hills, in and out of the pines.

  Queen saw an antelope.

  “Fresh meat,” he said, and throwing his rifle to his shoulder, he fired.

  Queen made a beautiful shot. The antelope leaped straight up, then fell dead, but with the report Jeanne’s horse bounded as if shot from a gun and broke into a dead run.

  Instantly Bowdrie put spurs to his roan and went after her. It was a thrilling chase, but the roan was simply too fast for the paint, and closing in, Bowdrie seized the bridle.

  It was a chance. They were off in the lead and might escape. He glanced back. Murray and Queen were sitting with their rifles up and ready.