The Man From Laramie Page 17

  “The last time Barb took my gun,” Will reminded thinly, “I was held and my hand almost shot off.” Will moved back, facing all the Barb men. Left hand in the cloth sling, right hand loose near his belt, Will promised, “Not this time—Not again—”

  This, he knew, was folly. They could riddle him. He watched the tall, white-mustached old man who peered down at him without expression. And when Waggoman said, “Keep your gun,” it was anticlimax, leaving Waggoman somehow supreme and unruffled.

  “All right, Vic,” Waggoman said. He wheeled the gray horse, and as his men drew together and followed, he put his horse into a lope back the way they had come.

  Will’s saddle gun had been taken. Kate looked at her disarmed crew, at the tight anger on Quigby’s face. She turned and looked after the two young steers which had bolted away.

  “So we’re rustlers,” Kate said, half to herself. A tired note entered her comment to Will. “He ain’t through. We’d best go home an’ think about it.”

  Kate rode to one side, alone, her head bowed in thought. She, too, looked older now, Will thought, and still a little dazed. Quigby’s anger was almost incoherent as the deputy rode briefly beside Will.

  “The man’s a fool! These aren’t the old days!”

  “Seems to be,” Will reminded mildly.

  They had reached the slopes above the ranch when Will sighted the first climbing swirls of greasy smoke. His sharp “Look!” brought Kate from her bemused state.

  Kate looked, and used her braided quirt then, riding like a man in a reckless gallop down the slopes covered with shin oak and brush. And even Will felt a little sick when they burst out of the last trees into the open, and the full sight lay below them.

  All was burning—haystacks and bunk house, sheds and cookshack—

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Smoke and flames were spurting from broken windows of the big house. Fire was bursting through the dry shake roof. As Will’s racing horse drew near, he saw the house roof mushroom into a scarlet wall of fire gushing high.

  The wide yard was ringed by burning structures spewing smoke, flames, and whorls of red embers. All that Kate had built in a lifetime was vanishing in wanton destruction. Barb men were even slashing the dried rawhide lashings of corral poles and hurling the poles on blazing heaps of other poles. In the veils of hot drifting smoke, the moving figures had a busy, evil look.

  The forlorn cook stood helplessly near his burning cookshack. Barb horses were bunched outside the fire-ringed yard, guarded by two men with carbines ready. The threatening guns waved the Half-Moon rush to a stop.

  Will made out Vic Hansbro striding about the smoke-filled yard, black hat shoved back as Hans-bro bawled orders. Alec Waggoman sat his uneasy gray horse near the burning cookshack, a silent, solitary figure, watching impassively.

  Kate ignored the two warning carbines and forced her horse on into the flame-ringed yard. Her shoulders sagged now in a defeated look.

  Will, driven by helpless anger, put his own frightened horse through showering sparks and acrid smoke to Alec Waggoman. Boxes of cartridges in the bunk house and the big house were exploding in ragged bursts as Will reached the tall old man who peered at him without expression.

  In cold anger, Will said, “You’ve done this now, like your son worked on me. You can’t undo this. But I’ve seen you try to be fair, mister. Didn’t you even take time to wonder whether a thief couldn’t have branded Barb calves, and then waited to see Kate Canaday accused?”

  New lines had graved into Waggoman’s face. His reply was a colorless, “Why should a thief bother?”

  And Will had to admit, “I don’t know; I only know Kate Canaday—And you should know her even better.”

  Then Will watched some great stirring of emotion move in the man, deep and held in. A sadness such as Will had never seen spread on the lined face.

  “If I ever thought that,” came from Waggoman slowly, “I’d come crawling on hands and knees, begging forgiveness.”

  Then Will had the feeling he drifted out of the man’s thoughts. Waggoman spurred his horse on by and his harsh order reached through the smoke to Hansbro.

  “Get the men!”

  Every structure was a mass of flame; little now could be salvaged, Will saw, as the Barb crew piled into saddles and the lot of them rode off on the ranch road, taking the guns of the Half-Moon men.

  Quigby had already left. Kate had dismounted in the flame-ringed yard. She was holding the reins, looking around when Will stepped down beside her. They watched the Half-Moon crew gather with them.

  Kate shook her head. Some of her stunned helplessness was lifting. She sounded more like herself.

  “Ain’t much we can do now.” And to her long-faced, indecisive men, Kate said, “Boys, you still got your britches. Get to work. I’ll send to town for bedrolls. We’re burnt out but we ain’t run out.”

  And then Will knew he would always admire this big, indomitable woman.

  As the Barb men rode away, Vic Hansbro looked back at the geysering smoke and flames. The chopped-off black beard hid his sly satisfaction. Now Alec Waggoman would be satisfied about the missing cattle. And Alec would always believe he had acted righteously.

  The thought worked pleasantly in Hansbro’s brain. He could handle Alec; and the Kirby girl and Frank Darrah could be handled, too. Hansbro looked at his tough Barb crew stringing out ahead, talking, laughing. His narrowing gaze went to Waggoman, riding at his right, chin sunk on chest. The old man had aged, Hansbro thought critically. Alec’s craggy face had a haggard look; he rode slumped and withdrawn, with a lonely, solitary look. Hansbro waited with covertly sneering patience when Waggoman glanced at him and asked a quiet, musing question.

  “Vic, why wasn’t I told our calves had been marked this way?”

  Hansbro had long planned the reply to this inevitable question. “You were off on a trip, Alec. It kinda slipped my mind later.”

  “I see. How many two-bits did you plant?”

  “Forty-fifty.”

  “And no one missed that many unbranded calves?”

  A faint unease dug at Hansbro. When Alec quietly pursued some thought like this, he was dangerous. Hansbro’s hasty thoughts floundered and brought out a lame, “I kep’ it quiet, Alec. Did it all alone; kep’ it to myself.”

  Waggoman was peering oddly at him. The old man’s musing voice said, “Lockhart suggested someone else could have put Kate’s brand on our calves.”

  “Meanin’ me?” Hansbro flared.

  After a moment Hansbro got back only a slow, “Not particularly, Vic. Lockhart could have meant me.” The old man rode silently before saying mildly, “But I didn’t, Vic. And why you?”

  “No reason,” Hansbro growled sulkily.

  “I can’t think of a reason, Vic.” Waggoman looked, sounded, old and tired. A little later he gathered the reins. His shoulders went back. “I’m going up on Chinaman Creek. Keep the men around the bunk house until I get back.”

  He reined off the road without saying more. A driving brute like Hansbro would not understand, Waggoman knew sadly. Who could understand that close under the high peaks a lonely man could gaze in anguish and vivid memory on his own life moving through the grandeur which rolled toward those now-blurred horizons?

  Alone up there a man could relive for an hour the hot triumphs, the great mistakes. He could taste again the exultations, the brooding, the grief. He could admit the mistakes.

  In growing anguish, Waggoman’s thoughts ran on the tall young stranger of great perception whose cold condemnation had bared truth Waggoman had always known deep inside. Never would Kate Canaday have rustled from Barb—or anyone else. Waggoman struck his clenched fist to the brass saddle horn helplessly.

  And behind him now out of sight Vic Hansbro was riding for a sweating mile. There would be more questions. Alec was that way when mystified. In sudden decision, Hansbro rode to the lead of the strung-out men and halted them. He forced booming joviality.

  “Al
ec’s cuttin’ back to look over more of Half-Moon. I’m riding to town for him. You men stay around the bunk house. Alec’s orders. He said to get some whisky outa the house pantry. Everyone gets a big blowout on the boss.”

  The quick grins and no questions asked were what Hansbro had expected. He listened, satisfied, to the yell which lifted. “Last man stays sober!” Spurs raked, quirts flailed—

  Hansbro watched them out of sight, and then rode up the mountain. He was afraid. But he would go, Hansbro knew now, to those high head-waters of Chinaman Creek. That tall and sometimes terrible old man had become suspicious and dangerous. Vic Hansbro’s future on Barb was safe now only with Barbara Kirby and Frank Darrah. That pair could be handled. And with all of Half-Moon in a killing mood toward Alec Waggoman now, this was the day to gamble greatly.

  At Half-Moon the fires had burned down to ashes and rubble, and Will Lockhart, working with the others, pondered this calamity for Kate, and the reasons for it.

  Kate Canaday was an honest woman. Alec Waggoman had his fairness. But behind those two, in the background, Vic Hansbro loomed malignantly.

  Will’s thoughts kept coming back to the huge, bearded foreman. What could Hansbro have gained by all this? And as sunset neared, Will decided to ride to Barb to night and question Waggoman bluntly.

  He had thought all afternoon that Barbara Kirby would come quickly when she heard. He sighted her finally riding through the blazing sunset, and he called to Kate and watched.

  Like all the rest, Will was grimed with wood ashes and black char. But he became less tired as he watched Barbara leave her froth-flecked sorrel horse and reach comforting arms to Kate. Barbara was loyal; she was kind.

  Then Will stood motionless, caught by his thoughts again. In a way now, Barbara was the great Barb ranch, too. And after she owned Barb, who else would profit? Frank Darrah would—But what of Hansbro?

  Frowning over this new thought, Will walked to the two women and heard Kate telling Barbara ruefully, “Child, you made a long ride for a skimpy supper.”

  Barbara was gazing around at the gray smoke wisps and rubble heaps which had been Kate’s home and life. In a low, scathing voice, Barbara said, “I thought Uncle Alec was decent and fair. But this—” Barbara swallowed. “To night I’ll tell him—”

  Kate’s grimy hand pushed graying hair off her smudged forehead. Her advice was tolerant. “Don’t waste good temper, child. I’m tougher’n that old scalawag’ll ever be. Forget him.”

  Some secretive look of women passed between them, and Barbara’s face softened. She looked small and young in the denim skirt and jacket Will had seen before. A small gray felt hat with chin cord of braided leather rode carelessly back on her wind-blown hair. Anger had put a silken bloom on her face. The stubborn outthrust of her red lower lip was provocative, and the stubbornness edged her reply to Kate.

  “He’s mentioned my owning Barb. To night he’ll hear what I think of Barb and of him.”

  “It’s a long ride after dark.” Kate’s speculative glance touched Will.

  His eyebrow cocked in faint amusement at Kate’s unspoken wish. To Barbara, Will said gravely, “I’m riding to Barb as soon as we eat. Can’t I tell your uncle for you?”

  “I’ll tell him,” said Barbara coolly.

  A little later, washing awkwardly with one hand in the windmill trough, made from a huge hollowed log, Will had the dismal feeling that this first graying twilight made the destruction look far more grim and complete.

  Wreckage had been cleared away from the cook’s iron range. Pans and pots, tinware and cutlery had been raked from the hot ashes. An old roundup wagon had been backed close to the range, its tailboard forming a worktable. A vealer calf had been butchered.

  Now smoke gushed from an upright length of stove pipe on the back of the range. The forlorn cook was frying steaks and tossing bits of meat to Kate’s disconsolate hounds. For two hours the huge coffeepot had been filled with rank, fire-charred coffee.

  In a way, recovery from hopelessness had started, Will reflected as he used the black neck sling for an indifferent towel. But what good all this effort if disaster could strike again? But presently, sitting on the ground beside Barbara, relishing good steak and fried doughballs made from the center flour of a charred barrel, Will felt more cheerful.

  As she had done in her own kitchen, Barbara cut his meat into bite-sized bits. In repose, her face was still provocative with anger. And as Will ate, he wondered what the unkind fates held for this girl who would one day own all of great Barb. Any possible answer was disturbing.

  Shortly they were riding toward Barb, and in the first mile Barbara asked the question Will was expecting.

  “Why are you going to Barb to night?”

  “I never miss a chance to ride anywhere with a pretty girl,” Will said gravely. He watched her flush, and his grin came.

  “And now why?” Barbara asked again.

  “Hansbro seems to be back of all this,” Will said, sobering. “Your uncle may know why.”

  “I’ve never liked Vic Hansbro,” was Barbara’s troubled admission. “But why should he hurt Kate?”

  Will said slowly, “A man like Hansbro isn’t complex. Self-interest or hatred will motivate most of his actions.”

  “You don’t,” said Barbara coolly, “talk like a mule skinner.”

  Will laughed softly. “You mean a mule skinner doesn’t talk like me. Is Hansbro in your uncle’s will?”

  Barbara’s quick look was startled. She said slowly, “Uncle Alec will know,” and she lapsed into silence.

  A smell of dust and cedar spiced the night. The sky in these early hours before moonrise became smooth jet splashed with stars. Their saddles creaked softly, and Will fell to musing on the intimate night hours this warmhearted girl had nursed him in her home. And now all her nights would be Frank Darrah’s. He put the thought away almost violently.

  Finally Barbara said they were nearing Barb headquarters. Minutes later they reined up suddenly as distant gunshots bounced echoes through the night ahead. Yells and snatches of song came faintly.

  Will judged dryly, “They’re celebrating.”

  Barbara was indignant as they rode on. “Uncle Alec couldn’t be celebrating Kate’s loss. And he’s always been strict about whisky around the bunk-house.”

  “They’re not full of pump water,” Will murmured, listening to the ribald sounds.

  They sighted red fire glow against the sky. A final bend in the road and they saw a great pile of dead wood blazing in the ranch yard. Crimson glare and dark shadows wavered on the fortlike stone house and outbuildings. Dark figures were moving around the fire.

  They were sighted. The towering figure of Vic Hansbro strode from the fire to meet them. Will rode ahead, watching Hansbro halt in startled recognition. Barbara moved up beside Will and as they reached the man, Hansbro snatched off his black hat.

  “Comp’ny wasn’t expected, ma’am,” he greeted Barbara with heavy sheepishness.

  Curtly Will asked, “Where’s Waggoman?”

  The scowl he got switched to an uncertain grin at Barbara. Will watched the white teeth showing in the black beard and made a cynical guess. He’s not forgetting she’ll be boss one day. He listened to Hansbro tell Barbara genially, “I’m sorry, miss. Your uncle ain’t back yet.”

  And suddenly the drunk and ribald crew around the fire was understandable. And more—Something was wrong here. Greatly wrong—

  The men were straggling to them, some staggering a little, many grinning, others owlishly curious. A taunting question was called. “You wan’ them Half-Moon guns?”

  Hansbro called an angry order. “All of you get to the bunk house an’ keep quiet!” And to Barbara, he was hurriedly apologetic. “They likkered up while I was gone to town, miss.”

  A loosely grinning puncher whooped, “Ol’ Alec said to git the whisky an’ we sure did!”

  Hansbro reached the man in a striding lunge. His fist smashed the loose grin. Will had been hi
t by that great fist; he winced from memory and watched the man stagger back and fall and huddle on his side motionless.

  The crimson fire glare played on Barbara’s pallor as she watched the men back away from Hansbro’s rage. Her uncertain question barely reached Will.

  “What shall we do?”

  “Wait in the house.”

  They rode to the back steps and dismounted before Hansbro got there. “Go in,” Will told Barbara. He followed her up the steps and turned in the doorway as Hansbro reached the bottom step. “We’ll wait alone,” Will said curtly when the big man started up. “Where’s Waggoman?”

  He knew Hansbro’s malevolent score against him; yet surprisingly the man backed off the step and explained genially, “I rode to town. Alec turned back to scout Half-Moon land. He oughta be home now.”

  “We’ll wait,” Will said again and stepped in the kitchen and closed the door.

  A glass lamp with white opaque shade was glowing on the worn pine kitchen table. And on the same table in the middle of the room, a litter of soiled tumblers and empty quart whisky bottles stood in a slop of spilled whiskey and water. Men had spat on the floor and tossed down cigarette ends. The kitchen reeked of stale tobacco smoke, stale whisky, stale sweat.

  Barbara’s pallor was greater as she looked around. Her low voice asked, “Did he say Uncle Alec rode back on Kate’s ranch alone?”

  “Yes,” Will said absently. He was turning to a back window. Out there in the wide yard, Hans-bro’s tall figure loomed by the crackling fire. He was rolling a cigarette and eyeing the house. Will turned back and considered the table. He said slowly, “So Waggoman told them to do this—”

  “I don’t believe it,” Barbara said under her breath. “If you knew how he’s always been—This isn’t like him—” The house was very quiet. Strain tightened Barbara’s voice. “Why should he ride back alone on Kate’s land?”

  “Waggoman went one way. Hansbro another. The crew came here and started drinking—” Will glanced down at his bandaged hand. His gray hard glance came up to Barbara.