The Man From Laramie Read online

“No.”

  “You workin’ for Frank Darrah?”

  “No. Does it matter?”

  “Might. Darrah’s sharp. He’d like to own Half-Moon if he can figure how to get it. He’s already got Barb in his pocket.”

  Will’s complete surprise made him blurt, “Got Barb? Darrah?”

  “He’s marryin’ Barbara Kirby, ain’t he? Her mother was Alec Waggoman’s sister. If something happens to Dave, then Barbara gets Barb,” came Kate’s calm words through the dust-muffled trot of her team. “An’ I wouldn’t give a short two-bits for Dave’s chance to grow gray hairs.”

  “Good God, no!” exclaimed Will.

  Kate’s quick retort jabbed back. “You seem certain about Dave dyin’ young.”

  Will evaded. “He’s a young hothead. How long can he back it up safely?”

  “I been wondering,” came Kate’s ominous conviction. “That’ll leave Barbara married to Darrah an’ all Alec’s holdings straight to them. I pinned diapers on that young lady. Her mother was my best friend. I ain’t sure she oughta get married so hasty.”

  Will sensed much more behind the brief words. Kate Canaday’s shadowy bulk on the open buggy seat was gazing toward him. He said nothing, and Kate’s faintly grim voice went on.

  “I ain’t a fool old woman with a big hate on. Ain’t a thought in Alec Waggoman’s mind I can’t guess. Alec’s changed; his health ain’t so good, although folks don’t notice it. I know he’s gettin’ Barb ready for Dave. Alec took that chunk of my best winter graze the other day, so Dave’d have it. He told Barbara so. Alec never figured it’ll only give Dave and Vic Hansbro ideas that they can snatch more of Half-Moon when they get control of Barb. And then finally we’ll see Frank Darrah get it all. See what I’m tryin’ to stop? My crew are good men. But they’ll be a sight better under a foreman who’s whipped Vic Hansbro with his fists.”

  It was a long speech. Will sensed a fierce, implacable determination behind the grim calmness of the big woman, silent now as she stared expectantly at him.

  He told her soberly, “I’ve no doubt you’re guessing correctly. But not about me. I can’t help you against Barb. That’s final.”

  “You’ll go back to jail?” Kate asked incredulously.

  “If I have to.”

  He heard then the first discouraged note in her assurance. “Y’ fooled me. I’d still swear you ain’t afraid.”

  “I’ve business of my own,” Will reminded. His suggestion to her irresolution was cautiously oblique. “It might help me to be thought Half-Moon foreman, if I can move around—Might even help Miss Kirby.”

  He could see her sitting more erectly, peering alertly at him. “So that’s how the bait cuts?” came her shrewd comment. “Y’ mean that about Barbara?”

  Will hesitated. “In confidence—”

  “My loud mouth ain’t a loose mouth,” said Kate sharply. “Come on to Half-Moon then. They’ll hear about it on Barb quick enough.” Kate’s laugh was short and grimly knowing. “It’ll surprise a lot of folks who’ve thought Barb ruled the roost. Includin’ Barb. You watch.”

  The swiftly spreading impact of what she had done would have pleased Kate Canaday immensely. Some of it would have surprised her. A little of it would have alarmed even Will Lockhart.

  In Roxton Springs, indignation began to build over the release of the prisoner. Then details of Lockhart’s wild fight with the Barb foreman began to circulate. There was growing, uneasy speculation as to what would happen now. In this region of vast, sun-washed distance and few settlers, all the gossip of a hundred distant miles was local property. All knew the Waggomans and Barb. All knew Kate Canaday and Half-Moon. And all recognized now the unmistakable promise of more trouble.

  Lieutenant Evans heard the news from Sergeant Clancy, whose coldly critical eye was supervising muck-out of the long, low-roofed adobe stables at Fort Roxton. Lieutenant Evans fingered his sweeping tawny mustache and demanded with frowning formality, “Sergeant, are you completely certain of the facts?”

  “That I am, sir,” Clancy said with relish. “A Troop’s McAllister heard it talked about in town las’ night. Burdette, over there, seen the fight the night before. Same man that Barb burned out at the salt lakes.” Clancy’s lopsided grin considered the future. “This Lockhart’ll be foreman of Half-Moon now, right next to Barb.”

  Evans’s impatient shrug dismissed that. “You say Lockhart was arrested for murder? For knifing a man to death?”

  “That he was.” Clancy sounded envious. “Ain’t every man has got a judge in his pocket to let him out after trouble like that.”

  Lieutenant Evans left the stables in frowning thought. He paused uncertainly at the corner of the quartermaster store house, came to a decision, and walked the echoing duckboards to the adjutant’s building.

  Ignoring the enlisted men at their endless paper work in the big front room, Evans removed his garrison cap with crossed sabers above the visor and carefully knocked on the partly open door of Colonel Lake’s office.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lake’s booming voice invited, “Well?”

  “Lieutenant Evans, sir.”

  “Well, Evans, come in! Are you bashful?”

  Flushing, Evans stepped in and with garrison cap formally under his left arm, saluted precisely. He was aware resentfully that the enlisted clerks had probably smirked at his back. Colonel Lake was a broad-shouldered man with fierce tufted eyebrows above pale-blue eyes, and his graying mustache was indifferently tended. Lake’s blouse was unbuttoned at the neck. He lounged at the desk with a well-chewed cigar gone dead in his hand, and waited.

  “Sir, I have a report which I should like to have quickly and quietly investigated. If the Colonel approves.”

  “Then close the door, Mister Evans, or there’ll be nothing quiet about it.”

  Flushing again, Evans complied. Standing stiffly, cap under his arm, he formally explained the case of Lockhart.

  Colonel Lake chewed slowly on the dead cigar and listened without expression. Colonel Mike Lake was, Evans knew, somewhat of a legend on the Indian frontier. And a complete disappointment when you reached his command. Lake was a loud man, carelessy indifferent to many of the niceties of regulations.

  Lake’s reply was colorlessly noncommittal. “Very interesting, Mister Evans. I heard some of that after your patrol returned. You stood by, I understand, while a man’s outfit was wantonly destroyed and his good mules slaughtered.”

  Red-faced, Evans reminded, “Sir, it was civilian business.”

  Lake took the cigar from his mouth. “Isn’t the rest of your report civilian business also?”

  “I believe, sir, the man is really Captain Lockhart. He has been arrested for suspected murder, a court-martial offense, entirely degrading to his army commission. There seems little doubt Lockhart is pursuing his feud with Barb Ranch. He will be in more trouble.”

  Lake’s murmur was dry and neutral. “Quite a man. And how, Mister Evans, does all this concern you?”

  “As an officer, sir, I feel that the man’s identity should be established. This could result in a scandal of major proportion.”

  Lake’s stare was thoughtful. “Possibly, if you should happen to be correct. I congratulate you, Mister Evans, on your devotion to regulations and—ah—the good name of the officers’ corps.” There was a bite in Lake’s tone which carried into his question. “This man Lockhart has gone to Half-Moon Ranch as foreman?”

  “Sergeant Clancy says so, sir.”

  “Very good, Mister Evans.”

  Saluting, wheeling precisely to leave, Evans had the uncomfortable, resentful feeling that an abrading sarcasm had backed the colonel’s words. But with solid satisfaction, Evans felt the matter would not now be pigeonholed.

  Colonel Lake watched the door close behind his visitor. Slowly he swiped a match underneath the chair seat and got the chewed cigar going. He got to his feet and moved to the window, frowning. He stared out for some moments, and then shook his head and returned
to the desk and scrawled a short message.

  Request immediate and unofficial report on Captain William Lockhart. Where stationed. Present status. Present whereabouts. Repeat: confidential and unofficial. Michael Lake, Colonel, Commanding, Fort Roxton, Territory of New Mexico.

  In Coronado late the same day, Jubal Kirby’s dusty buckboard brought the mail again from Roxton Springs, and the astounding news that Will Lockhart, the stranger, was now foreman of Half-Moon. It aroused all the interest Jubal expected.

  At home, Jubal found Barbara in the kitchen mixing a cake. Dusty, tired, and quizzically thoughtful, Jubal related what Kate Canaday had done. His expression grew reproachful as Barbara stood at the oilcloth-covered kitchen table and chuckled across the stoneware batter bowl.

  “The poor man didn’t have a chance,” Barbara said in amusement. “Kate had her mind made up when she started to Roxton Springs after him.”

  “You knew Kate was up to that and didn’t tell me?” Jubal accused. He shook his head and eyed his daughter dubiously. “If Kate wants trouble, she’s got the makings now.” Jubal ran fingers through his shock of Irish-black hair and considered his mirthful daughter warily. “Kate tell you what she’s up to?”

  Barbara lifted the spoon and critically watched the creamy batter run off the end. “Barb and Alec Waggoman, naturally.”

  “Kate,” said Jubal seriously, “had better keep her mind on Vic Hansbro and Dave. They’re the powder. This man Lockhart is the match.”

  Barbara looked up, searching her father’s face. “Is Lockhart that bad?”

  “Kate oughtn’t to put him that near Dave Waggoman and Hansbro,” said Jubal absently. His glance had turned forlorn as it wandered around the kitchen. “Be mighty lonesome here after the wedding,” Jubal admitted under his breath.

  “You’ll live with us.”

  Jubal made no comment, pretending not to notice the anxious look Barbara gave him. After a moment Barbara said slowly, “You don’t want me to marry Frank, do you?”

  Jubal’s chuckle was rueful. “Only make you more stubborn if I said so, wouldn’t it?” He studied her, and asked abruptly, “What does Kate Canaday think about it?”

  “The same as you do, I think,” Barbara admitted. “I don’t know why.”

  “Kate knows there’s not a man in these parts good enough for you.”

  “You’re evading,” Barbara said.

  “A man with a spitfire daughter gets the habit,” said Jubal largely. He ended their talk by going to his room to change his dusty driving clothes and shave and bathe.

  Barbara poured the batter into three square cake pans in a sober mood. The youthful, chuckling lightheartedness seemed to have left Jubal. He was absent-minded and thoughtful much of the time. He had not, so far as Barbara knew, been in McGrath’s saloon since his tremendously successful evening at poker. He was not Jubal.

  Tomorrow, Barbara decided, she would ride out to Half-Moon again and talk with Kate about Jubal—And talk again about Frank Darrah. Kate was the one person in the world who would bluntly, unselfishly give her shrewd advice. Barbara, suddenly and rather desperately, wanted advice.

  In the same gathering dusk, Frank Darrah locked the front door of his store and began to empty the cash drawers. He was pleasantly, excitedly tired. Today he had dispatched more men and wagons to the salt lakes to join an advance crew he had sent from Roxton Springs. And all day with increasing expectancy his thoughts had been on Vic Hansbro, wondering what the man would do, and when it would happen. There was a mounting fever now in the hope that Barb—all of fabulous Barb—might suddenly come into Frank Darrah’s control.

  Frank stood motionless at the cash drawer under the canned goods counter, thinking of it, hardly noticing his clerk, McGuire, pausing in the aisle with broom and dustpan.

  McGuire’s casual “Kind of a surprise, Lockhart going to Half-Moon,” brought Frank’s glance up, frowning.

  “The man’s in jail,” Frank said shortly.

  “Was,” McGuire corrected. “Miss Canaday got him out on a court order. Made him foreman.”

  Frank’s stare was startled. Then he had the quick suspicion McGuire was covertly estimating his reaction. Then the full meaning of McGuire’s statement hit hard. Lockhart was out—Lockhart was near Coronado again—Lockhart was close once more to Frank Darrah—

  Sharply Frank ordered, “Get to your sweeping.”

  His mouth had dried out. His hand reaching for greenbacks in the cash drawer was unsteady. Frank stared helplessly at the hand and a vitriolic tide swept him.

  Lockhart was taking on a creeping implacability. Frank had again the unreal sensation that dead hands were reaching from the Dutch Canyon massacre. His question to McGuire who had moved to the rear of the store had a thick forced sound.

  “How d’you know all that about Lockhart?”

  “Jubal Kirby brought the mail from Roxton an’ told it.” McGuire’s guess was reflective. “No telling now what’ll happen between Barb an’ Half-Moon.”

  Frank stuffed greenbacks and coins into a canvas money sack and crossed to the other cash drawer. He paused there at the bolt goods counter thinking with rising fascination of Lockhart on Half-Moon, and Vic Hansbro, Alec Waggoman, and Dave close by on Barb. Trouble between those explosive men would be bitter and deadly. Men would die.

  Frank’s finger tips automatically fitted into the combination pulls of the cash drawer. He hardly heard the bell’s thin tinkle warning as the drawer slid out. The trouble might easily be set off. Vic Hansbro could do it. Then a new, suggestive thought made Frank pause again.

  Half-Moon might well be crippled financially if savage trouble broke out between the two big ranches. A keen trader might find an opening to take over control of Half-Moon quickly—

  The thought held Frank fascinated as he emptied the day’s cash onto his office desk for counting. If Vic Hansbro did not appear in town in the morning, Frank decided, a trip out to Barb might be immensely profitable. He would go.

  George Freall heard the news in Kitty’s Café. In frowning thought, Freall finished his coffee and retraced his steps to the bank he had just closed.

  Freall liked to say the bank was successful because he understood the country and the people. Now with the bank’s green window shades still down, Freall opened the safe and carried the small metal note case to his office desk.

  He sat a long while considering certain notes and assignments bearing Kate Canaday’s vigorous signature. His sober thoughts ranged over the possibilities if a feud exploded between Half-Moon and Barb. It had long been a possibility, Freall glumly admitted now. And this stranger Lockhart was the man to spark the feud off and make it totally dangerous.

  Sighing, finally, Freall returned the note case to the safe. Uneasy premonitions, he knew, would plague his evening. He had known Alec Waggoman and Kate Canaday in the old days when the three of them were young. And this promised a tragic ending, George Freall thought apprehensively, to those still clear and cherished memories. And he had no idea of what he or the bank might do.

  Not long before the post office closed, Tom Quigby, the deputy, got his mail, a lone letter from Sheriff Johnson at Roxton Springs.

  On the boardwalk outside, Quigby read the sheriff’s heavy scrawl casually, then intently.

  Dear Tom: Maybe you’ve heard I arrested on suspicion of murder one Will Lockhart, who had the trouble with Barb at the salt lakes and fought the Barb foreman in Coronado. He had another fist fight after he got here. The other man was found knifed to death a little later. Man named Boldt. He’d been drunk. Lockhart claims he never saw Boldt before. So far I can’t prove different. Can you?

  Anyway, Miss Canaday, of Half-Moon, turned up with an order signed by Judge Vandiger and took Lockhart to Half-Moon as foreman. I look for trouble now between Half-Moon and Barb. It’ll put hell in your hip pocket if it breaks. Head it off if you can. Send me word if it starts.

  Quigby’s soft oath was heartfelt as he shoved the letter into his pocket and
moved on in frowning concentration. A lone stranger, Quigby reflected rather dismally, could cause enough trouble. But when the stranger was a lean, smiling, completely hard and dangerous man like Lockhart, already wronged by Barb, and backed now by someone like Kate Canaday and her Half-Moon crew, then the sheriff’s fears were entirely justified.

  The man named Boldt was not familiar to Quigby. He found a bartender presently in Mc-Grath’s saloon who recalled Boldt hazily, unfavorably, and none of it connected with Lockhart.

  By then Quigby was aware of a mounting tension in the town, like a storm gathering on the peaks, barely muttering, but threatening devastation for the range. Everyone knew Barb and Kate Canaday, and the town had seen Lockhart in action.

  A small rancher named Webb told Quigby apprehensively, “A shootin’ feud’ll draw cutthroats here from the Texas Llano to Tucson. With ’Paches at our backs now, a big range war’ll bust us small outfits.”

  The man, Quigby knew, was right. And Tom Quigby was only one lone deputy on all this far-flung Coronado range. Not taken too seriously, either. Certainly not by Barb.

  Then Quigby’s Texan stubbornness and belligerency took command. Alec Waggoman and Lockhart were the key men. Each of them, Quigby decided, would have his warning in the morning. It might be possible to head off the trouble.

  The next morning the steady road lope of Tom Quigby’s horse was far from Coronado when Barbara Kirby saw Frank Darrah on the other side of Main Street and waved a greeting. Barbara halted, smiling, while Frank hurried across the street to her.

  He looked as if he hadn’t slept well, Barbara thought, as Frank stepped on the boardwalk beside her. Hat in hand, smiling, he referred to her divided riding-skirt. “Going somewhere?”

  “Half-Moon,” Barbara said lightly, and she wondered guiltily what Frank would say if he suspected her errand was a sober talk with Kate about Frank himself.

  “I might,” Frank said easily, “have to ride to Barb.”

  “I’ll wait for you,” offered Barbara impulsively.