The Chick Bowdrie Short Stories Bundle Page 7

  “Not a chance,” he told Jeanne. “He’d nail us just like he did that antelope.”

  She was staring at him with angry eyes. “That’s the chance I’ve been waiting for!” she protested.

  “You wouldn’t have a prayer. Now, tell ’em your horse ran away with you, and act the same way you have up to now. I’m a Texas Ranger.”

  Hope leaped into her eyes, then sank into sullenness as she tried to assume her old manner. Chick took her bridle and waited for the other men to come up.

  “Lucky you stopped her,” Queen said. “She might have been killed.”

  He looked sharply at Jeanne. “How does it feel to be rescued? Doesn’t that make Shep, here, a hero?”

  “No hero would ride with a bunch of low-down thieves and murderers!” she flared.

  “If it was me,” Hess said viciously, “I’d slap those words right down her throat!”

  “It ain’t you,” Queen replied mildly. “I like the gal’s spunk.”

  Bowdrie’s black eyes missed nothing. The big gunman was a shrewd judge of character, and Chick was sure the man suspected him. Also, he knew that every mile they put between themselves and Texas made the task more difficult.

  This was Queen’s country. He had ridden here before. He knew the land and the people, and they had come far from the Rangers and any chance of rescue.

  Chick felt trapped. Every instant of delay drew him deeper and deeper into an entangling web of hills, and at any moment there could be a showdown. Bowdrie guessed Queen had seen the hurried conversation between Jeanne Buck and himself the day her horse ran away.

  Yet the big gunman was agreeable, always pleasant, quick to smile. Then one night they camped some thirty miles south of San Francisco Peak.

  When they finished eating, John Queen looked up suddenly. “Shep, you an’ Hess might as well ride into the settlement with Kaspar. See if there’s any strangers around, buy supplies, and you might as well bring back a jug of whiskey while you’re at it. We’re going to be holed up until the trial’s over—”

  “Trial?” Bowdrie looked surprised. “Who’s bein’ tried?”

  He thought he made a credible appearance of ignorance, but a man could never be sure with John Queen.

  “Oh? Didn’t we tell you? Miss Buck here is sort of stayin’ with us until we see how a trial goes back in Texas. We both kind of want to see it turn out right so’s she can go home.”

  John Queen’s smile faded. “Now, you boys just ride into town and get what we need. We’ll be waitin’ for you.”

  Chick’s dark, Indian-like face showed no expression. He walked to his horse and started saddling up. It meant that for several hours she would be left alone with these men.

  Not that they would molest her. If that had been a part of their plans, it would have happened long before this. What he feared was that Queen would spirit her away while he was gone. He might have decided who Bowdrie was, and be using this method to be rid of him. It was significant that Bob Hess had been chosen to accompany him. Hess was too volatile to trust to ride into a strange town when secrecy was imperative.

  There was nothing to do but obey. There was a murmur of voices from the fireside, but Kaspar joined him and there was no way he could listen.

  The time had come for a showdown, and he was sure Queen suspected him. In any event, he was not one of them, just a man on the dodge supposedly traveling the same route, and this was a good time to be rid of him.

  As they headed for town, he was aware of the increasing silence on the part of his companions. It was a sullen, determined silence his comments could not invade. Bob Hess he did not expect to talk, but Kaspar was usually a talkative man.

  Kaspar rode beside Bowdrie, Hess always half a length behind, and the danger of his position was obvious. Whether John Queen suspected him or not, he wanted no more of the man called Shep Harvey.

  In town they trotted their horses to the hitching rail in front of the Frontier House. Inside, a half-dozen men were at the bar, and several gaming tables were active. Chick walked to the bar and bought a drink for Kaspar. Bob Hess lingered at one of the tables.

  Suddenly Bob Hess’s voice lifted over the noise and the talk. “Hey, Shep! Come here a moment!”

  Chick Bowdrie turned instinctively, aware of the undercurrent in the man’s voice. He straightened away from the bar, knowing if he went toward Hess he would put Kaspar at his back. As things stood, the two men were on the same side of him. “You come here,” he said, “I’ve got me a drink.”

  There was a muttered exchange at the table, and then a man got up and started toward Chick. He walked beside Hess, and Bowdrie could see the triumph in Hess’s eyes he was trying to hide.

  The young man, scarcely more than twenty, had a hard, reckless face and he walked with a bit of swagger. When he was a year or two older, he would drop that. A tough man did not have to make a parade of it.

  They stopped about twelve feet away and the young man said, “My name is Shep Harvey!”

  Bowdrie felt his pulse jump, but he had half-expected something of the kind. His features showed no change. “How nice for you! It’s a pleasure to know you.”

  Harvey hesitated. The announcement had been calculated to throw Bowdrie into confusion. Hess, too, was surprised.

  “I hear you’ve been usin’ my name.”

  “That’s right. It sounded like a good name to me, and I didn’t want these boys to know who I really was.”

  “I don’t like four-flushers usin’ my name. I don’t like it one bit. I’m goin’ to put an end to it right now!”

  “My name’s Bowdrie,” Chick said, “Chick Bowdrie.”

  Bob Hess’s face turned sick and Shep Harvey was caught flatfooted. He was good with a gun and liked being known as a fast man, but he had no stomach for facing men who might be faster. He preferred shooting, not being shot at. He took a step back, suddenly aware he was holding a busted flush.

  “Go ahead, Hess,” Bowdrie said. “You’ve wanted it, now you’ve got it.”

  Magically, the room behind them had cleared. Hess, panic-stricken, dropped a hand to his gun, and Bowdrie’s flashing draw put a period to the moment. One shot only, and Bowdrie’s gun swept past Harvey and shot into the slower-moving Steve Kaspar.

  Kaspar took the bullet standing and continued his draw. As his gun came up, Bowdrie shot him again, and his knees gave way and he pitched to the floor.

  Shep Harvey, his face a deathly white, held his hands high, away from his guns. It was the first time he’d had a chance to shoot it out with a really fast man, and suddenly all his appetite for gunfighting vanished. He stepped back, shocked, staring at the blood where Bob Hess lay dying.

  “Drop your gunbelt, Harvey. Then get your horse and get out of town. But don’t go back to Texas. We don’t want you there.”

  Harvey stepped back, unbuckling his guns; then he ducked through the door, almost running.

  Bowdrie glanced around the room, then gestured at the men on the floor. “These were Texas men. They abducted a girl after murdering her father. It is Texas business, and I’m a Ranger.”

  The bartender had both hands on the bar. “Far’s we’re concerned, mister, your business is cleared up. You probably saved Arizona the trouble of hangin’ them.”

  The campfire was cold and dead when he reached the spot where he had left the girl and her captors. It was now too dark to find a trail, and much too dangerous. Moving back into the trees, he put down his bedroll and slept soundly until morning.

  There was a faint chill in the air when he awakened. Obviously Hess and Kaspar had known where to go when they were rid of him. Some plan had been arrived at, either to tell him he was no longer wanted or to get him drunk and kill him. The accidental meeting with Harvey had probably seemed an easy way out.

  If Hess and Kaspar had known where to go, it argued a hangout not too far away. If such was the case, no doubt the others awaited them there. Whatever was to be done must be done at once.

 
Trailing the horses proved simple enough. No effort was made to disguise their trail. They must be so close to home that it no longer mattered, or … The reason became obvious. The trail led to a large shelf of rock, then vanished.

  He studied the situation with care. Shod horses do not cross rock without leaving tiny white scars, which often remain for days or until the next rain. However, in this case the rock was scarred by many comings and goings.

  There were other considerations. In any hideout, water would be needed for themselves and their horses. Riding to the highest point he could safely reach, Bowdrie sat down and began a careful study of the country.

  They would be in a draw, a hollow, or a canyon. At least, that would be the first choice. Otherwise they might choose someplace that would permit them to look over all the approaches. Seating himself against a rock, he studied the area before him. From this study emerged three strong possibilities.

  He was still studying them when he saw a horseman. The rider, astride a buckskin pony, came from the direction of town and he was riding fast. Bowdrie gathered his reins and swung to the saddle, cutting diagonally across the mountain on a route that would bring him in behind the rider. “Nine chances out of ten, that feller is taking John Queen the news that I’ve killed his water boys.”

  Reaching the comparative concealment of a draw, he touched spurs to the roan and raced ahead. If he could round that rock right ahead before the rider reached it, he could be out of sight.

  He heard the snapping whir one instant before the noose dropped over his head. He tried to duck—too late!

  The loop dropped over his arms and tightened and he pulled in the roan but he was jerked from the saddle with a bone-jarring thud. The roan, relieved of his rider, whirled about and stared back, ears pricked.

  Chick lunged to his feet, reaching for his gun.

  “Hold it!” The harsh voice was Jake Murray, with a shotgun. “Better not try it, Bowdrie. John Queen wants to talk to you.”

  “You know me, then?”

  “It was John Queen. He’s got a memory for gunfighters. He never quit tryin’ to figure who you was. He never bought that Shep Harvey story even a little. Last night it come to him.”

  Circling around behind him, Murray took his guns. “Where’s the others?” he asked.

  “Hess never liked me an’ he got carried away by the idea. He ran into the real Shep Harvey and braced me with it. Hess started it an’ Kaspar had no choice but to back him.”

  “What about Harvey?”

  “A tinhorn. When shootin’ started, he run up the white flag.”

  Murray tightened the rope and took another turn around him. “You nailed both Hess an’ Kaspar, huh? You must be pretty handy. Can’t say I mind about Bob Hess. He was troublesome. ’Bout as comfortable to be around as an irritated porcupine. But I better not tell the boss. He’d be apt to give you a gun so’s he could kill you proper.”

  “Queen?”

  “He’s a hand, Bowdrie. Don’t you forget it. To my thinkin’, he’s faster than Hardin or any of that bunch.”

  The route took them down through a rocky gorge into a long valley in the hills. At the far end there was a cabin, corrals, and a barn.

  John Queen came to the door with a sleepy-eyed man in a cowhide vest. “Got him, did you? What happened to Kaspar an’ Hess?”

  Briefly Murray replied, and John Queen looked over at Bowdrie. “You should have killed him, I guess, but I needed to talk to him. Bring him inside.”

  Jeanne Buck looked up as he came through the door with his hands tied behind him. Her lips tightened a little but she said nothing.

  John Queen glanced at her. “Might as well settle down, miss. This here Ranger was tryin’ to play the hero, but he stubbed his toe.”

  “Kill him,” the man in the cowhide vest said. “No use to feed him.”

  “Ain’t always a good idea to kill a Ranger. Them other Rangers don’t take to it. They’ll hunt a man down if it takes a lifetime.”

  “There ain’t none of them this side of Texas!” the other man protested.

  “Are you sure?” Bowdrie said.

  “Are you suggestin’ you weren’t over here alone?” John Queen demanded.

  “Figure it out for yourself,” Bowdrie said. “If you were a judge in Texas and your favorite niece was kidnapped, would you send only one Ranger?”

  “If there’s more, why ain’t they with you?” Murray demanded.

  Bowdrie shrugged. “I got here first, that was all. I picked up your trail pretty easy, but that gunplay in Flagstaff will draw them like flies. They’ll be all over this country, with all the local law helping them.”

  He looked over at Queen. “It was a fool play, John. You should have read the record a little. Judge Whiting wears a brand anybody can read, and he wouldn’t ease up on a convicted man if you had his whole family. You’ve wasted your time.

  “Also,” he added, “you’ve made enemies of a lot of folks who might have been sympathetic until you kidnapped this girl. You know yourself there’s mighty few outlaws will touch a woman, because they know what will happen. Well, you’ve got them down on you. There isn’t an outlaw hideout in the West would let you in on a bet.”

  “Shut up, damn you!” Queen shouted, yet Bowdrie could see he was disturbed. He had acted in haste and now was repenting, although not at leisure. Queen had no way of knowing Bowdrie was acting alone and that he was the only Ranger who could be spared at the time.

  “John?” he persisted. “Why don’t you take this rope off, give us our horses, and turn Miss Buck and me loose? This is a game you can’t win, so, being a good poker player, why don’t you chuck in your hand now, while you can?”

  “Do you think I’m crazy?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out, John. Why buck a stacked deck?”

  John Queen made no reply, although Murray looked at him, a question in his eyes.

  Bowdrie looked around the room from the chair where they had tied him. A huge fireplace covered the north wall, flanked by a cupboard on each side. There were bunks against both the east and west walls. Navajo rugs lay on the floor, Navajo blankets on the bunks. A rifle stood near the door, another on nails over the fireplace.

  Jeanne sat on a bunk near the fireplace and Jake Murray sprawled on a bunk across from her. John Queen sat in a chair where he could watch the door, a big man, sullen now, in a black-and-gray-plaid shirt, staring into the distance.

  The messenger from town was outside somewhere with Eberhardt and Peters, the man in the cowhide vest.

  Murray sat up. “Seen a buck down by the stream when I rode in. I’m hungry for venison, so I’ll have a try for him before it gets dark.”

  Queen made no reply. That he was worried was obvious. He did not like the thought that more Rangers might be coming, and he recognized the truth of what Bowdrie had said. Even outlaws were wary of annoying women, and in kidnapping Jeanne Buck he had transgressed an unwritten law. At the moment, he had thought only of saving Damon.

  Jeanne’s eye caught that of Bowdrie. Her hand was toying with the poker and she lifted it, showing a red-hot tip. Then she took her handkerchief from her pocket and threw it into the fire. At the smell of burning cloth, Queen looked around irritably.

  “It’s just my handkerchief. It was too dirty to keep. Next time one of your boys goes into town, he can buy some for me.”

  “You think that’s all we got to do? Run errands for you?”

  “You asked for it!” Jeanne replied. Queen gave her an angry glance, then resumed staring out the door.

  Bowdrie’s heart was pounding heavily. Her strategy was shrewd and evident enough now. With the smell of burning cloth in the room, Queen might not notice burning rope. Lifting the poker, she held it at arm’s length to burn the ropes that bound Bowdrie’s hands.

  The smell of burning rope was in the room mingled with that of the handkerchief, but Queen, in a brown study, was unaware. Desperately Chick worked at the ropes.

  Qu
een suddenly shifted on his chair and glanced at them, but Jeanne had the poker back in the fire.

  “Light a lamp,” he said to her. “It’s gettin’ dark in here.”

  Jeanne got to her feet and had just lighted the lamp and was still holding it when Eberhardt loomed in the doorway. He sniffed suspiciously. “Smells like burnt rope,” he said. “What’s goin’ on?”

  “Rope?” John Queen was suddenly alert. “Rope!”

  Jeanne turned and threw the lamp at Eberhardt. He threw up a protecting arm, and the lamp shattered and he was drenched with blazing oil. He sprang back, cursing, and Chick lunged to his feet. How much the ropes had burned, he had no idea, but it was now, if ever. With a tremendous heave he felt the ropes give way as Queen turned on him.

  With a quick motion of his foot he kicked the chair against Queen’s legs, and the big man went down with a crash. Ripping the burned ropes from his hands, he sprang for his guns, but Queen grabbed his ankle and he fell against the bunk. Queen leaped at him, but he rolled away and came to his feet.

  The big man was just as quick. As he struggled erect, he swung a powerful right that knocked Bowdrie back against the cupboard, but as he followed it in, Bowdrie kicked him in the stomach and drove him into the corner. They both came to their feet, and Bowdrie swung a left and right into the big man’s midsection as they came together, then hooked a right to his ear.

  There was a yell from outside, and Jeanne caught up the rifle near the door. She fired, and there was a cry of pain and shock from outside. Chick smashed Queen back with driving rights and lefts, taking a wicked blow on the cheekbone that staggered him, but he slashed a cut under Queen’s eye with a lancing left.

  Queen lunged at him, but Chick toed the chair in his path again and the big man went over it to the floor.

  But the big gunman was tough; he came up off the floor. Bowdrie’s knee flattened his nose, and he went down again.

  Grabbing for his guns, Chick swung them about his hips and drew the buckle together. He sprang to the side of the door. “Where are they?” he asked.

  “Eberhardt’s in the barn, but he’s burned pretty bad. Peters is out there with a rifle. I either wounded him or scared him.”