Squatting on the ledge beside his hobbled horse, Hutch Kellogg finished his austere breakfast of cornbread sandwiches and canteen-water and began rolling a cigarette. Some short distance behind and above the deputy, Cole Wilson drew his six-gun and threw a glance to the south. There was dust on the horizon. In a matter of moments, the first riders would appear.
Kellogg scratch a match for his cigarette, yawned boredly and checked the mechanism of his shotgun. Then, laying that heavy weapon aside, he reached for his field-glasses and rose to his feet. He was standing there, the glasses trained on the horizon, when Wilson silently descended upon him with his Colt swinging. The barrel crushed the crown of Kellogg’s Stetson. He grunted once, flopped to his knees and pitched forward on his face.
Cole Wilson stepped over the prone body of his victim and sauntered to the rim of the ledge, to follow the approach of the lead riders. Still the dust on the horizon. They were coming slow, he reflected. Well, at least four of them should be advancing at speed, since they would be riding fresh mounts. He waited, patiently at first, then with his tension increasing. All his attention was focused on the area to the south.
Kellogg was slow in all ways—slow-thinking, slow to anger, slow of movement. Naturally, he wouldn’t revive quickly. But he was reviving. His eyes opened for a brief moment, some ten minutes after Wilson had laid him low. His left cheek was pressed to the flat surface of the ledge. He squinted dead ahead and saw first the boots, then the legs, then the whole back view of his assailant—and recognized him. His head ached and his vision was blurred. Wisely he reclosed his eyes and waited.
Another ten minutes, and Wilson was cursing excitedly. Two riders were advancing fast, veering away to the right to enter the copse. The distance was considerable but, with the aid of the deputy’s field glasses, he easily identified them. Those proddy Texans! Why were they headed for the timber? He switched his gaze further south and spotted the other riders. Neech and his six cohorts were coming on, but slowly, on horses that were lathered and panting.
Neech and his men were still a hundred feet from the timber when the Texans reappeared. At first, it seemed they were still riding the same horses, but Neech and his men—and Wilson—soon realized that the sorrel and pinto forked by Larry and Stretch were fresh animals. Beside himself with rage, Neech yelled commands to his cohorts.
“After them! Follow them into the canyon—and don’t give them a chance to sink a marker!”
With Bale tagging him, he headed into the timber. The third and fourth spare horses were hobbled there. Cursing bitterly, they dismounted and ran to the fresh animals.
“It had to be them!” panted Bale. “They must’ve sneaked out and ...”
“All right, all right!” snarled Neech. “They won’t get away with it!”
Beyond the timber, the Texans turned in their saddles and eyed the oncoming riders. Neech and Bale were quitting the cottonwoods and coming on fast.
“From here on,” Larry calmly opined, “it’s gonna get rougher.”
“What the hell?” grinned Stretch. “Only seven of ’em.”
“C’mon,” growled Larry. “Let’s find a prime section for Luke.”
The spare sorrel had a fine turn of speed; the pinto too. At a headlong rush, they covered the last open area fronting the canyon gate, with Neech and Bale following close and the others strung out behind. Noting this, Wilson decided it was time for him to move. He retreated to where his horse awaited, sparing no glance for his victim, who was still immobile.
Kellogg didn’t stir until Wilson had departed. Then, as the clatter of hooves receded, he rolled over and rose to his knees. Mumbling oaths, he crawled to where his shotgun lay, gathered it up and struggled to his feet.
The ledge was a lofty vantage point, affording him a clear view of the events taking place—and about to take place—north of the canyon gate. He could see Wilson descending by the north slope, a steep grade that would take him to level ground some ninety yards west of the entrance. And he could see Larry and Stretch, who had forged through the opening at a breakneck gallop and were advancing to one of the first marked sections.
Under these hectic conditions, they were unable to give much thought to the selection of a suitable site for the Sorleys. They spotted a flag and had only a few moments in which to note the section beyond, barely long enough to establish that it was cut by the creek and well sheltered by a stand of cottonwood.
“Get it done fast, runt!” yelled Stretch. “They’re closin’ in!”
Larry rode to the flag, reined up in a flurry of dust and unhitched his stake. As he dismounted, they heard the clatter of hooves to their rear. Neech and Bale were entering the canyon now and, slowly but surely, their hirelings were following. Grim-faced, Larry crouched by the flag and jabbed his stake into the ground beside it.
“That’s it, big feller,” he muttered, as he returned to the sorrel and remounted. “Far as I’m concerned, old Luke’s got himself a piece of land—and plague take any hombre that tries to jump this claim.”
“Company comin’,” Stretch warned.
“That ain’t company,” growled Larry. “That’s trouble—and I’m ready for it.”
All seven riders had entered the canyon. They were fanning out to surround the Texans, and an eighth—Wilson—was approaching from the west.
“We get rid of these two!” Larry heard Neech call to his men. “Then we secure those other claims!”
Slowly, the circle formed. As yet, they weren’t close enough for accurate pistol-shooting—but that would come. The Texans emptied their holsters and traded glances.
“We’re wide open,” muttered Stretch. “Nary an inch of cover—unless we make a run for it.”
“You feel like runnin’ from these coyotes?” asked Larry.
“No more’n you do,” grinned Stretch. “Let’s take our chances, runt.”
“When they close in,” said Larry, “hit the dirt—and let ’em have it.”
They eased their boots from their stirrups, cocked their weapons and patiently awaited the inevitable. Somewhere to the west they heard a new drumming of hooves. Stretch darted a quick glance in that direction, and observed:
“That looks like the deputy—ridin’ like crazy.”
“We got no time to fret about him,” drawled Larry. “Neech and his pards are close enough to call a showdown.” He swung his six-gun toward the advancing hardcases and yelled a warning. “That’s far enough! This claim is staked, and nobody takes it away from us!”
“Shoot them down!” roared Neech. “Get rid of them fast—and pull up that stake!”
The circle of riders was closing in. Some of Neech’s men were actually taking aim at the Texans—when Kellogg arrived. Recognizing him, Neech unleashed a venomous oath and curtly berated the nonplussed Wilson.
“I told you to keep him out of our way!”
“You’re all under arrest!” bawled Kellogg.
“The hell with him ...!” snarled Wilson, as he swung his gun toward the oncoming rider.
And then it happened. The Texans were being given a head start in the matter of triggering the conflict, because Kellogg wasn’t waiting. Rising in his stirrups, the deputy discharged a barrel of his shotgun, with devastating results. Buckshot riddled Wilson and stung his horse. The animal reared, throwing its rider and the other horses began prancing in confusion.
Quickly, Larry and Stretch went to ground, leaping from their saddles and sprawling on the grass, rolling, then cutting loose with their Colts. All around them, the guns roared, but confusion was their ally—confusion, and a plodding lawman too angry to be scared. Larry’s first wild shot sent Bale plummeting from his mount. His second missed Neech by a hair’s breadth. Neech forged toward him, shooting fast. A tongue of fire licked at his left upper arm. He winced, rolled again and triggered his third shot, saw the boss-thief shudder in his saddle and begin toppling.
Stretch was on his knees, his forearms horizontal with the ground, his matched Colts roaring in fierce challenge. Kellogg had been knocked to the ground by a bullet, but was still in business. The second charge from his scattergun emptied another saddle. One of Stretch’s bullets grazed Murch’s head. Murch keeled over sideways and struck ground shoulders first.
A rider dismounted, the better to draw a bead on the Texans. Stretch knocked him sprawling with a well-aimed slug, and yelled a query to his partner.
“You hit?”
“Scratched,” growled Larry. “Watch out for them other two!”
But that warning was unnecessary. Demoralized by the fast shooting of the Texans, the survivors of Neech’s force were wheeling their mounts, about to begin a retreat. Stretch called after them.
“I got a bead on you both. Too late to make a run for it, boys. You’re still in range.”
“Drop the guns!” ordered Larry.
As an additional discourager, he aimed and fired. One of the hardcases felt the air-wind of that slug—and that was enough. He dropped his weapon and raised his hands. His sidekick hastily followed his example.
“Down!” snarled Kellogg.
They dismounted. The deputy picked himself up and, oblivious to the pain of his bloodied left leg, glowered at the sprawled bodies of the dead and wounded. Larry squatted cross-legged and began reloading, the while he fired a query.
“You totin’ any liquor, by any chance?”
“Bottle of rye in my saddlebag,” muttered Kellogg.
“Fetch it,” Larry ordered Stretch, “and don’t drink it all. You’ll have to doctor us.”
“Sure,” nodded Stretch. “Just set quiet.”
Larry was content to sit and smoke, but not Kellogg. One by one, the deputy unhitched marker-stakes from the saddles of the outlaws’ horses. As he piled them on the ground, he sourly asserted:
“These here candidates are disqualified—all of ’em.”
“All except that one,” drawled Larry, nodding to the Sorley marker.
“That’s all right,” frowned Kellogg. “I saw you sink that stake fair and square. But—by Judas—these other lousy claim-jumpin’ sons of bitches ...!”
“Take it easy,” grinned Larry. “You’re leakin’ blood all over Luke Sorley’s section.”
A few yards away, the pallid Russ Bale rolled over on his left side and began begging for help.
“A doctor ...!” he panted. “You—got to fetch a doctor! I’m sinking fast ... I—”
Kellogg limped across to the gambler, and no further. Suddenly weak from loss of blood, he flopped on his backside. Larry rose up and trudged across. When Stretch joined them, hefting the whiskey bottle, Larry said:
“Feed the deputy a shot and pour some on his wound. I can wait.”
“You still bleedin’?” Stretch demanded.
“No,” frowned Larry. “You doctor the deputy. I’ll tend this jasper.”
“A doctor ...!” began Bale.
“Stay quiet,” Larry gruffly ordered. He knelt beside the stricken gambler and studied his bloodied chest. Then, gingerly, he unfastened the red-stained shirt to check the wound. It interested him more than somewhat. He was laughing inwardly, but his face was grim as he remarked, “Bad. As bad as I’ve ever seen.”
“You mean ...?” Bale eyed him, aghast.
“I mean you couldn’t last,” sighed Larry. “’Specially if Doc Drew tried diggin’ for the slug.” He examined the course of the bullet with some interest, paying special attention to the contents of the gambler’s inside coat pocket. “If you got anything to tell us, you’d better say it fast.”
“By Judas,” grunted Kellogg, “I always was leery of Neech and Bale. I guess I oughtn’t be surprised ...”
“Your sidekick,” Larry prodded Bale, “wanted the whole damn canyon. Isn’t that so?”
“A fortune,” groaned Bale. “We’d have been—sitting on a fortune.”
“How come?” demanded Larry.
“Railroad ...” Bale licked his lips, sighed heavily. “They want Carew Canyon—for a right-of-way. St. Louis and Western Railroad. Lew got the word from somebody on the inside—feller name of Croshaw. We were gonna—claim on every section—then hold out for our own price.” Stretch, who was anointing the deputy’s gashed calf with raw whiskey and fashioning a makeshift bandage, drawled a suggestion.
“Ask him about that Austin hombre.”
“How about that?” Larry challenged Bale. “What d’you know about Austin?”
“Lew gunned Austin,” mumbled Bale. “He—he had to. He was afraid Austin would turn yellow—and talk.”
“About ...” prodded Larry. Bale hesitated, and Larry made a show of rechecking his wound. “It’s stopped bleedin’—and that’s a bad sign. Go ahead. The truth can’t hurt your partner. He’s as dead as he’ll ever be.”
“Lew,” frowned Bale, “paid three of ’em to—ambush Del Weaver. He didn’t want Weaver to ride Snow-Boy today.”
“Austin ...?” asked Larry.
“And Wilson,” nodded Bale, “and Murch.”
“Nice goin’, runt,” grinned Stretch. “Now we know everything.”
“Uh huh,” grunted Larry. “Two thousand dollars’ worth.” He patted Bale’s shoulder. “All right, mister. On your feet.”
Bale’s eyebrows shot up.
“You crazy or something? I’m dying!”
“Deputy,” said Larry, “loan me your manacles.” Stretch unhitched Kellogg’s manacles and tossed them to Larry, who jerked Bale to his feet, pulled his hands behind his back and secured his wrists.
“This isn’t human!” Bale loudly protested.
“You’ll have your day in court,” Larry grimly assured him. He then emptied the gambler’s inner pocket and exhibited the contents, a thick leather wallet, punctured by a bullet, a deck of cards, also punctured, a heavy metal cigar case, badly dented. In his left hand, he hefted the spent slug for the surprised appraisal of Stretch and the deputy—not to mention Bale. “My bullet hit him from the side, plowed clean through the wallet and a deck of cards, dented his cigar case and rammed it against his chest. The force of it was enough to knock him offa his cayuse and gash his chest, but not enough to kill.”
“You tricked me!” groaned Bale. “Damn you to hell!”
“I thought he was a goner,” frowned Kellogg.
“And he thought he was a goner,” grinned Larry.
A small portion of the whiskey was used to sterilize Larry’s shallow arm-wound. The greater part of it was transferred to the interior of Deputy Kellogg, for the purpose of boosting his strength. By the time the next candidates came struggling into the canyon, the wounded Bale and Murch were secured to their horses and the unhurt captives bound hand and foot. The dead were left where they lay, for the time being. Two trouble-shooters and a hard-toiling deputy had completed their labors and were taking their ease, awaiting the arrival of the official party.
It was quite a sight to see—the advances of the land-hungry optimists whose horses and vehicles had been sabotaged by Neech’s men. One farmer arrived on a plodding sway-back that was close to collapse. Another entered the canyon straddling a broken wagon-tongue which was still secured to a four-horse team. Another team, panting and hefty and six-strong, dragged in a wagon of which only the front wheels remained, with the driver clinging to his seat. And so it went. In they came—the poor and needy of Beck County, desperate for just a small sector of the promised land.
At eleven a.m., the tenth section had been claimed and the hapless stragglers were retreating. It was then that the officials arrived to distribute deeds of ownership to the lucky candidates. They had traveled in the mayor’s surrey. Sheriff Loomis was driving, with the mayor seated beside him and the rear seat occupied by the land agent and the “Herald” editor.
Like a homing pigeon, Lucius Gifford descended upon the Texans and the deputy. His eyes gleamed with professional interest, as they focused on the scene of carnage.
Loomis came after him, his eyes wide with shock, his mouth open and forming queries. Kellogg forestalled the inevitable interrogation with a terse description of the ruckus, after which Larry calmly announced:
“You’re welcome to take charge of the prisoners, Sheriff, now that all the fightin’s over.”
“If I’d had any notion my deputy’d run into a shootin’ fight,” frowned Loomis. “I’d never have sent him out here all by himself.”
“Well,” grinned Kellogg, “I managed—all by myself. Only my hide wouldn’t have been worth the price of a casket if these here Texans hadn’t settled Neech’s hash.”
“Wrecked wagons all along the route,” reported Gifford. “You never saw such a mess.”
“Those wagons never had a chance—right from the start,” opined Larry. “When Bale and Murch have been sweatin’ a while, they’ll likely tell you plenty. It’s my hunch Neech was payin’ his sidekicks to fix every rig. Neech was a hombre that wasn’t partial to competition.”
The Sorley family arrived in force, some fifteen minutes later, and their gratitude was deep and fervent.
“I never seen land so lush,” Luke humbly asserted. “Look at it! Rich and green and plenty water—everything we ever wanted, by golly!” He, wrung Larry’s hand. “How am I ever gonna thank you?”
“Forget it, Luke,” grinned Larry. “You had it comin’.”
“On accounta,” Stretch reminded him, “you risked your hide to save our lives.”
“But that was nothin’,” frowned Luke. “I did what I did because I’m plain unselfish—never thinkin’ of myself …”
The Texans cut short his thanks—and his speech. Before quitting the canyon, there was one last chore Larry had to handle. To Loomis and the land agent, he relayed a vital detail of Bale’s confession, the fact that a great railroad combine was interested in ownership of the canyon. He told it simply, with the Sorleys hanging on his every word.
“Here’s how it adds up,” he explained, in conclusion. “The ten owners of Carew Canyon will need to meet and parlay and decide how they’ll act if St. Louis and Western representatives make ’em an offer. The big question is what would they rather do—keep this land and make it their home—or sell it for a fast dollar.”
“Speakin’ for myself …” began Luke.
“The trouble is,” frowned the land agent, “you can only speak for yourself. No telling how the other sodbusters will react.”
“I’ll call a meetin’ and tell ’em the score,” offered Luke, “and I betcha they’ll vote to stay. The heck with the railroad. Let ’em lay track somewheres else.”
He was as good as his word. The meeting was already convening, when Larry and Stretch retrieved their own horses and began their return journey to town. Now that the fighting was over, now that they had won an answer to all the questions that had bedeviled Larry, they were eager to be on their way. It was their intention to retrieve their rifles and pack-rolls from the Lone Star barn, have a farewell drink with Brazos and then ride to Bar A for a reckoning with Clem Alden, before quitting the county.
But, as it happened, they were spared the necessity of visiting Bar A. Alden was in town, along with his womenfolk. The Texans reined up beside the Bar A surrey after concluding their goodbyes with Brazos. Hattie greeted them warmly. Her father’s attitude was as cold as ever, until Larry began telling him the score.
“They’ll be bringin’ one of Weaver’s killers to the calaboose in a little while. We were ridin’ out to tell you.”
“One of Del’s killers?” challenged Alden.
“I guess you could say there were four in all,” Larry explained. “Three were paid for the job by Lew Neech. Maybe you knew him?”
“Neech is scum!” breathed the rancher.
“Well,” shrugged Larry, “he’s dead scum now. The only man to stand trial is a jasper name of Murch.” He went on to repeat Bale’s statement in its entirety, and Alden never once interrupted, but sat quiet with his eyes glued to Larry’s face and his hands loosely holding his reins. Hattie and her mother were silent, still nursing their shock. At the end of it, Larry thoughtfully remarked, “Your nephew was a marked man—from the minute he paid his ten dollars and registered for the race.”
“And we’ll go on mourning him,” muttered Alden. “But at least I’ll know his murderers have paid for what they did.”
“Vengeance is an empty thing, Clem,” sighed Myra.
“It isn’t just vengeance,” said Alden. “No man should be allowed get away with murder. If a man can kill and escape punishment, we can’t claim to be civilized.” He stared hard at the Texans. “Well, I swear I never believed you could do it, but now I’m admitting I was wrong about you.”
“We’re a mite smarter’n we look,” Stretch modestly assured him. “’Specially Larry.”
“Myra,” said the rancher, as he helped his womenfolk to alight from the rig, “while you and Hattie are at the Bon Ton, I’ll take these hombres across to the bank and pay ’em off.”
Hattie confronted Larry for a brief moment, smiling wistfully and extending her hand.
“I guess we’ll never meet again,” she murmured, “so this has to be goodbye. That’s how the legend goes, isn’t it?”
“Legend?” he frowned.
“You have a reputation,” she reminded him, “for never settling. Unless I miss my guess you’ll be riding out as soon as you’ve collected from Dad.”
“Well ...” He shrugged and grinned, “there’ll be nothin’ left for us in Beck County.”
“If you ever return to Beck County ...” smiled Hattie.
“Sure,” nodded Larry. “I’ll remember.”
The nomads paid a last call on the Sorley family before quitting the territory. Larry’s wound was causing him no great discomfort. Like all the other wounds he had suffered, it would heal in time. And the two thousand dollar reward money made a comforting bulk in his hip pocket. For a while at least, the Texas Hell-Raisers were solvent.
It was mid-afternoon when they re-entered the canyon, and already Luke and his brawny offspring were happily cutting timber for foundations.
“We had us a meetin’,” Luke cheerfully announced, “and it turned out just like I hoped. We’re all stayin’, Larry. This is the kinda land every farmer craves, so we’re stickin’ with it, by golly.”
“Glad to hear it,” nodded Larry. “You could do a sight worse for yourself.”
“Sure am beholden to you gents,” grinned Luke. “Ain’t never gonna forget what you did for me and mine.”
“The least we could do,” Larry soberly retorted, “seein’ as how you risked your life for us.” He lifted a hand in farewell. “Hasta la vista.”
“Ride a safe trail,” urged Luke.
With his sons, he stood staring after the tall riders until they were disappearing through Carew Canyon’s southern entrance.
“Couple real salty jaspers, them Texans,” Eli commented.
“There’s times,” frowned Luke, “when I’ll feel kinda guilty—rememberin’.”
“You mean rememberin’ how we tricked ’em?” challenged Oley.
“Grieves me some,” Luke sadly confided. “Plagues my conscience. Well, they’ll never guess, so I reckon there’s no harm done.”
Some miles from Beck County, as they rode slowly into the gathering twilight, Stretch thought to remark:
“I wonder who in tarnation it was.”
“Who in tarnation who was?” countered Larry.
“Them guns that tried to ambush us,” frowned Stretch, “when we first crossed the county line. You remember?”
“I ain’t apt to forget,” drawled Larry. “I’ve thought on it, and I reckon I know the answer.”
“Well, for gosh sakes,” urged Stretch, “tell me who!”
“It’s my hunch,” shrugged Larry, “that old Luke’s boys can hit anything they aim at with a rifle—and miss any mark they want to miss—if you know what I mean.”
“You think ...?” Stretch eyed him aghast. “You think old Luke set his own sons to snipe at us—just so’s he could play hero and—trick us into bein’ beholden to him?”
“Somethin’ like that,” nodded Larry.
“You oughta be ashamed,” chided Stretch. “Hell, runt, you got an awful suspicious mind.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” yawned Larry. “We’re still alive and kickin’ and Luke has his land. So what the heck?”
“Sure,” shrugged Stretch. “What the heck?”