The Best of Robert E. Howard, Volume 2 Read online

  “What devil’s work is this?” he harshly demanded; and then his gaze fell on the man on the floor. His eyes widened.

  “Grimes!” he ejaculated. “Jim Grimes, my deputy! Who did this?” There was something tigerish about him as he wheeled toward the uneasy crowd. “Who did this?” he demanded, half crouching, his gun still lifted, but seeming to hover like a live thing ready to swoop.

  Feet shuffled as men backed away, but one man spoke up: “We don’t know, Middleton. Jackson there was havin’ a little fun, shootin’ at the ceilin’, and the rest of us was at the bar, watchin’ him, when Grimes come in and started to arrest him –”

  “So Jackson shot him!” snarled Middleton, his gun covering the befuddled one in a baffling blur of motion. Jackson yelped in fear and threw up his hands, and the man who had first spoken interposed.

  “No, Sheriff, it couldn’t have been Jackson. His gun was empty when the lights went out. I know he slung six bullets into the ceilin’ while he was playin’ the fool, and I heard him snap the gun three times afterwards, so I know it was empty. But when Grimes went up to him, somebody shot the light out, and a gun banged in the dark, and when we got a light on again, there Grimes was on the floor, and Jackson was just gettin’ up.”

  “I didn’t shoot him,” muttered Jackson. “I was just havin’ a little fun. I was drunk, but I ain’t now. I wouldn’t have resisted arrest. When the light went out I didn’t know what had happened. I heard the gun bang, and Grimes dragged me down with him as he fell. I didn’t shoot him. I dunno who did.”

  “None of us knows,” added a bearded miner. “Somebody shot in the dark –”

  “More’n one,” muttered another. “I heard at least three or four guns speakin’.”

  Silence followed, in which each man looked sidewise at his neighbor. The men had drawn back to the bar, leaving the middle of the big room clear, where the sheriff stood. Suspicion and fear galvanized the crowd, leaping like an electric spark from man to man. Each man knew that a murderer stood near him, possibly at his elbow. Men refused to look directly into the eyes of their neighbors, fearing to surprise guilty knowledge there – and die for the discovery. They stared at the sheriff who stood facing them, as if expecting to see him fall suddenly before a blast from the same unknown guns that had mowed down his deputy.

  ________

  Middleton’s steely eyes ranged along the silent line of men. Their eyes avoided or gave back his stare. In some he read fear; some were inscrutable; in others flickered a sinister mockery.

  “The men who killed Jim Grimes are in this saloon,” he said finally. “Some of you are the murderers.” He was careful not to let his eyes single out anyone when he spoke; they swept the whole assemblage.

  “I’ve been expecting this. Things have been getting a little too hot for the robbers and murderers who have been terrorizing this camp, so they’ve started shooting my deputies in the back. I suppose you’ll try to kill me, next. Well, I want to tell you sneaking rats, whoever you are, that I’m ready for you, any time.”

  He fell silent, his rangy frame tense, his eyes burning with watchful alertness. None moved. The men along the bar might have been figures cut from stone.

  He relaxed and shoved his gun into its scabbard; a sneer twisted his lips.

  “I know your breed. You won’t shoot a man unless his back is toward you. Forty men have been murdered in the vicinity of this camp within the last year, and not one had a chance to defend himself.

  “Maybe this killing is an ultimatum to me. All right; I’ve got an answer ready: I’ve got a new deputy, and you won’t find him so easy as Grimes. I’m fighting fire with fire from here on. I’m riding out of the Gulch early in the morning, and when I come back, I’ll have a man with me. A gunfighter from Texas!”

  He paused to let this information sink in, and laughed grimly at the furtive glances that darted from man to man.

  “You’ll find him no lamb,” he predicted vindictively. “He was too wild for the country where gun-throwing was invented. What he did down there is none of my business. What he’ll do here is what counts. And all I ask is that the men who murdered Grimes here, try that same trick on this Texan.

  “Another thing, on my own account. I’m meeting this man at Ogalala Spring tomorrow morning. I’ll be riding out alone, at dawn. If anybody wants to try to waylay me, let him make his plans now! I’ll follow the open trail, and anyone who has any business with me will find me ready.”

  And turning his trimly-tailored back scornfully on the throng at the bar, the sheriff of Wahpeton strode from the saloon.

  Ten miles east of Wahpeton a man squatted on his heels, frying strips of deer meat over a tiny fire. The sun was just coming up. A short distance away a rangy mustang nibbled at the wiry grass that grew sparsely between broken rocks. The man had camped there that night, but his saddle and blanket were hidden back in the bushes. That fact showed him to be a man of wary nature. No one following the trail that led past Ogalala Spring could have seen him as he slept among the bushes. Now, in full daylight, he was making no attempt to conceal his presence.

  The man was tall, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, lean-hipped, like one who had spent his life in the saddle. His unruly black hair matched a face burned dark by the sun, but his eyes were a burning blue. Low on either hip the black butt of a heavy Colt jutted from a worn black leather scabbard. These guns seemed as much part of the man as his eyes or his hands. He had worn them so constantly and so long that their association was as natural as the use of his limbs.

  As he fried his meat and watched his coffee boiling in a battered old pot, his gaze darted continually eastward where the trail crossed a wide open space before it vanished among the thickets of a broken hill country. Westward the trail mounted a gentle slope and quickly disappeared among trees and bushes that crowded up within a few yards of the spring. But it was always eastward that the man looked.

  When a rider emerged from the thickets to the east, the man at the spring set aside the skillet with its sizzling meat strips, and picked up his rifle – a long range Sharps .50. His eyes narrowed with satisfaction. He did not rise, but remained on one knee, the rifle resting negligently in his hands, the muzzle tilted upward, not aimed.

  The rider came straight on, and the man at the spring watched him from under the brim of his hat. Only when the stranger pulled up a few yards away did the first man lift his head and give the other a full view of his face.

  The horseman was a supple youth of medium height, and his hat did not conceal the fact that his hair was yellow and curly. His wide eyes were ingenuous, and an infectious smile curved his lips. There was no rifle under his knee, but an ivory-butted .45 hung low at his right hip.

  His expression as he saw the other man’s face gave no hint to his reaction, except for a slight, momentary contraction of the muscles that control the eyes – a movement involuntary and all but uncontrollable. Then he grinned broadly, and hailed:

  “That meat smells prime, stranger!”

  “Light and help me with it,” invited the other instantly. “Coffee, too, if you don’t mind drinkin’ out of the pot.”

  He laid aside the rifle as the other swung from his saddle. The blond youngster threw his reins over the horse’s head, fumbled in his blanket roll and drew out a battered tin cup. Holding this in his right hand he approached the fire with the rolling gait of a man born to a horse.

  “I ain’t et my breakfast,” he admitted. “Camped down the trail a piece last night, and come on up here early to meet a man. Thought you was the hombre till you looked up. Kinda startled me,” he added frankly. He sat down opposite the taller man, who shoved the skillet and coffee pot toward him. The tall man moved both these utensils with his left hand. His right rested lightly and apparently casually on his right thigh.

  The youth filled his tin cup, drank the black, unsweetened coffee with evident enjoyment, and filled the cup again. He picked out pieces of the cooling meat with his fingers – and he was care
ful to use only his left hand for that part of the breakfast that would leave grease on his fingers. But he used his right hand for pouring coffee and holding the cup to his lips. He did not seem to notice the position of the other’s right hand.

  “Name’s Glanton,” he confided. “Billy Glanton. Texas. Guadalupe country. Went up the trail with a herd of mossy horns, went broke buckin’ faro in Hayes City, and headed west lookin’ for gold. Hell of a prospector I turned out to be! Now I’m lookin’ for a job, and the man I was goin’ to meet here said he had one for me. If I read your marks right you’re a Texan, too?”

  The last sentence was more a statement than a question.

  “That’s my brand,” grunted the other. “Name’s O’Donnell. Pecos River country, originally.”

  His statement, like that of Glanton, was indefinite. Both the Pecos and the Guadalupe cover considerable areas of territory. But Glanton grinned boyishly and stuck out his hand.

  “Shake!” he cried. “I’m glad to meet an hombre from my home state, even if our stampin’ grounds down there are a right smart piece apart!”

  Their hands met and locked briefly – brown, sinewy hands that had never worn gloves, and that gripped with the abrupt tension of steel springs.

  The hand-shake seemed to relax O’Donnell. When he poured out another cup of coffee he held the cup in one hand and the pot in the other, instead of setting the cup on the ground beside him and pouring with his left hand.

  “I’ve been in California,” he volunteered. “Drifted back on this side of the mountains a month ago. Been in Wahpeton for the last few weeks, but gold huntin’ ain’t my style. I’m a vaquero. Never should have tried to be anything else. I’m headin’ back for Texas.”

  “Why don’t you try Kansas?” asked Glanton. “It’s fillin’ up with Texas men, bringin’ cattle up the trail to stock the ranges. Within a year they’ll be drivin’ ’em into Wyoming and Montana.”

  “Maybe I might.” O’Donnell lifted the coffee cup absently. He held it in his left hand, and his right lay in his lap, almost touching the big black pistol butt. But the tension was gone out of his frame. He seemed relaxed, absorbed in what Glanton was saying. The use of his left hand and the position of his right seemed mechanical, merely an unconscious habit.

  “It’s a great country,” declared Glanton, lowering his head to conceal the momentary and uncontrollable flicker of triumph in his eyes. “Fine ranges. Towns springin’ up wherever the railroad touches.

  “Everybody gettin’ rich on Texas beef. Talkin’ about ‘cattle kings’! Wish I could have knowed this beef boom was comin’ when I was a kid! I’d have rounded up about fifty thousand of them maverick steers that was roamin’ loose all over lower Texas, and put me a brand on ’em, and saved ’em for the market!” He laughed at his own conceit.

  “They wasn’t worth six bits a head then,” he added, as men in making small talk will state a fact well known to everyone. “Now twenty dollars a head ain’t the top price.”

  He emptied his cup and set it on the ground near his right hip. His easy flow of speech flowed on – but the natural movement of his hand away from the cup turned into a blur of speed that flicked the heavy gun from its scabbard.

  Two shots roared like one long stuttering detonation.

  The blond newcomer slumped sidewise, his smoking gun falling from his fingers, a widening spot of crimson suddenly dyeing his shirt, his wide eyes fixed in sardonic self-mockery on the gun in O’Donnell’s right hand.

  “Corcoran!” he muttered. “I thought I had you fooled – you –”

  Self-mocking laughter bubbled to his lips, cynical to the last; he was laughing as he died.

  The man whose real name was Corcoran rose and looked down at his victim unemotionally. There was a hole in the side of his shirt, and a seared spot on the skin of his ribs burned like fire. Even with his aim spoiled by ripping lead, Glanton’s bullet had passed close.

  Reloading the empty chamber of his Colt, Corcoran started toward the horse the dead man had ridden up to the spring. He had taken but one step when a sound brought him around, the heavy Colt jumping back into his hand.

  He scowled at the man who stood before him: a tall man, trimly built, and clad in frontier elegance.

  “Don’t shoot,” this man said imperturbably. “I’m John Middleton, sheriff of Wahpeton Gulch.”

  The warning attitude of the other did not relax.

  “This was a private matter,” he said.

  “I guessed as much. Anyway, it’s none of my business. I saw two men at the spring as I rode over a rise in the trail some distance back. I was only expecting one. I can’t afford to take any chance. I left my horse a short distance back and came on afoot. I was watching from the bushes and saw the whole thing. He reached for his gun first, but you already had your hand almost on your gun. Your shot was first by a flicker. He fooled me. His move came as an absolute surprise to me.”

  “He thought it would to me,” said Corcoran. “Billy Glanton always wanted the drop on his man. He always tried to get some advantage before he pulled his gun.

  “He knew me as soon as he saw me; knew that I knew him. But he thought he was making me think that he didn’t know me. I made him think that. He could take chances because he knew I wouldn’t shoot him down without warnin’ – which is just what he figured on doin’ to me. Finally he thought he had me off my guard, and went for his gun. I was foolin’ him all along.”

  Middleton looked at Corcoran with much interest. He was familiar with the two opposite breeds of gunmen. One kind was like Glanton; utterly cynical, courageous enough when courage was necessary, but always preferring to gain an advantage by treachery whenever possible. Corcoran typified the opposite breed; men too direct by nature, or too proud of their skill to resort to trickery when it was possible to meet their enemies in the open and rely on sheer speed and nerve and accuracy. But that Corcoran was a strategist was proved by his tricking Glanton into drawing.

  Middleton looked down at Glanton; in death the yellow curls and boyish features gave the youthful gunman an appearance of innocence. But Middleton knew that that mask had covered the heart of a merciless grey wolf.

  “A bad man!” he muttered, staring at the rows of niches on the ivory stock of Glanton’s Colt.

  “Plenty bad,” agreed Corcoran. “My folks and his had a feud between ’em down in Texas. He came back from Kansas and killed an uncle of mine – shot him down in cold blood. I was in California when it happened. Got a letter a year after the feud was over. I was headin’ for Kansas, where I figured he’d gone back to, when I met a man who told me he was in this part of the country, and was ridin’ towards Wahpeton. I cut his trail and camped here last night waitin’ for him.

  “It’d been years since we’d seen each other, but he knew me – didn’t know I knew he knew me, though. That gave me the edge. You’re the man he was goin’ to meet here?”

  “Yes. I need a gunfighting deputy bad. I’d heard of him. Sent him word.”

  Middleton’s gaze wandered over Corcoran’s hard frame, lingering on the guns at his hips.

  “You pack two irons,” remarked the sheriff. “I know what you can do with your right. But what about the left? I’ve seen plenty of men who wore two guns, but those who could use both I can count on my fingers.”

  “Well?”

  “Well,” smiled the sheriff, “I thought maybe you’d like to show what you can do with your left.”

  “Why do you think it makes any difference to me whether you believe I can handle both guns or not?” retorted Corcoran without heat.

  Middleton seemed to like the reply.

  “A tin-horn would be anxious to make me believe he could. You don’t have to prove anything to me. I’ve seen enough to show me that you’re the man I need. Corcoran, I came out here to hire Glanton as my deputy. I’ll make the same proposition to you. What you were down in Texas, or out in California, makes no difference to me. I know your breed, and I know that you’ll shoot s
quare with a man who trusts you, regardless of what you may have been in other parts, or will be again, somewhere else.

  “I’m up against a situation in Wahpeton that I can’t cope with alone, or with the forces I have.

  “For a year the town and the camps up and down the gulch have been terrorized by a gang of outlaws who call themselves the Vultures.

  “That describes them perfectly. No man’s life or property is safe. Forty or fifty men have been murdered, hundreds robbed. It’s next to impossible for a man to pack out any dust, or for a big shipment of gold to get through on the stage. So many men have been shot trying to protect shipments that the stage company has trouble hiring guards any more.

  “Nobody knows who are the leaders of the gang. There are a number of ruffians who are suspected of being members of the Vultures, but we have no proof that would stand up, even in a miners’ court. Nobody dares give evidence against any of them. When a man recognizes the men who rob him he doesn’t dare reveal his knowledge. I can’t get anyone to identify a criminal, though I know that robbers and murderers are walking the streets, and rubbing elbows with me along the bars. It’s maddening! And yet I can’t blame the poor devils. Any man who dared testify against one of them would be murdered.

  “People blame me some, but I can’t give adequate protection to the camp with the resources allowed me. You know how a gold camp is; everybody so greedy-blind they don’t want to do anything but grab for the yellow dust. My deputies are brave men, but they can’t be everywhere, and they’re not gunfighters. If I arrest a man there are a dozen to stand up in a miners’ court and swear enough lies to acquit him. Only last night they murdered one of my deputies, Jim Grimes, in cold blood.