Cartridge Creek, page 9
Tom Brand’s body was absolutely rigid, his face pale. For a moment, Leatherman thought he would reach for his guns. Hollister thought so, too; he came up straight, and a hand went to each pistol butt.
Then Brand regained control. “No, Fate,” he said quietly. “You’ll never get away with anything like that.”
“And why not?”
“Two reasons. The railroad and the ranchers.”
Canady’s lips curled. “I see neither as an obstacle.”
“You’d better. The railroad might sell this place to you; God knows, I can’t tell what they’ll do any longer. But if it gets too hairy, they won’t stop their trains here anymore. And then the town will wither up and die.”
“They’ll stop their trains here,” Canady said. “As long as the cattle shipments are heavy, they’ll stop their trains.”
“And who the hell do you think will ship any cattle?”
“I will,” said Canady. “When I own the ranches.” He stood up, lithely. “Tom, you’re a man who looks ahead. You know the value of rangeland around here has hit rock bottom. Once I control Cartridge Creek, it’ll go even lower. I’ll buy the best land for a song, and then I’ll be in the cattle business too. I’ll build an empire here—” His eyes glowed. “Town and ranches both. I’ll ship my cattle through Cartridge Creek and the railroad will bow low to me then, and … Five years, ten years from now, Fate Canady will be the most important man in New Mexico. The only one who owns a town, the only one who owns a rangeland empire … And if you think you can stop me through the railroad or even the government in Santa Fe, you can think again. The railroad doesn’t care, and … there are people in Santa Fe who like the way my plans stack up, if they’re cut in.”
Brand let out a long, shuddering breath. Then, for the first time since Leatherman had known him, he looked discouraged. “Christ,” he said, almost a whisper.
“You see?” There was amusement and triumph in Canady’s voice. “You recognize that it will work. You don’t believe in people any more than I do. People shriek for law and order, but what they really want is money. If they make enough money, they don’t give a damn about the rest.” Then his manner changed, turned businesslike. He dropped back into his chair. “All right, Tom, let’s get down to cases. It’s true, there’s got to be a foundation for everything. That foundation exists here in Cartridge Creek, and it’s to my advantage to preserve it. We need the suckers, the people who keep the wheels turning for modest reward, the storekeepers and the clerks. Not even Rome or Athens could survive without them, nor can Cartridge Creek. So if it’s them you’re concerned about, I’ll make you a promise. They’ll be allowed to go about their business in the usual way. I’ll make sure my men leave them alone, if they’ll hang on. I’ll guarantee their safety and your girlfriend’s, too, I mean Mrs. Grady. As long as they don’t brace or oppose me, they can stay. If they do, I’ll run them out or kill them. The same applies to you. But if what you’ve come here for is assurance that they can go about their business, they have it.” He gestured. “Further, I’ll see that those corpses out there on the street are buried. We’ll clean up the town in that regard. Your ground squirrels can come out of their holes— But they had better not forget one thing. Cartridge Creek belongs to Fate Canady now, in fact, and soon it will in the law books at the county seat. As long as they remember that, there’ll be no trouble.”
Brand said, “Fate, I won’t go any further with you now. But I’ll hold you to that last. My people need to get back to work.”
“They can—with my blessing.”
“Then we’ll leave it at that for now,” Brand said. “Come on, Will.”
“Wait a minute,” Canady said. “Mr. Leatherman.”
Will Leatherman moved forward a step to face him. “Yeah?”
“I think I’ve got one more condition. You bother me. There’s something about you I can’t figure out. Whatever it is, I don’t like the way you stack up. How long do you intend to remain in Cartridge Creek?”
“Until,” Leatherman said thinly, “I’m ready to go. I told you that.”
“And when will that be?”
“I don’t know,” said Leatherman. “A day, a week, or maybe never.”
“That’s not an answer that I like. Who are you, Mr. Leatherman?”
“I deal in rangeland. I told you that, too.”
“Then go,” said Canady. “There is no deal for you here.”
Brand stepped forward before Leatherman could answer. “Fate, this man’s my friend; I’ll not have him rousted.”
“My decision,” Canady said. “Not yours. Leatherman, you have maybe forty-eight hours in Cartridge Creek. After that, you’re here on your own risk.”
Leatherman said nothing. Canady once more arose. “Tom, I’ve proved I’m a man of reason. Work with me, you’ve nothing to fear and you might get rich. Now, both of you, go on back to Mrs. Grady’s. You’ll have no trouble getting there and I’ll guarantee the woman will not be bothered again unless you turn her house into some kind of meeting place for people who want to challenge me. That’s your decision. Good day, gentlemen.”
Brand said nothing, only turned. Leatherman remained where he was, looking at Canady. What he saw staring back at him with eyes as cold as any lizard’s was evil, pure evil.
Then Leatherman said quietly, “Canady, I pick the time I come and go myself. I have been around a while and have some rings on my horns. There may not be anything in or around Cartridge Creek for me, but I’ll stay as long as I please, I told you that before. I hope you understand it now. Good day.” He touched Brand on the arm. “Come on, Tom, let’s go.”
“The son of a bitch,” said Brand. There were only the three of them, Tom, Bettina, and Will Leatherman, at the table in the kitchen, drinking bourbon. Sullivan had gone to meet the morning train, the other boarders had gone back to their rooms. A detail of Mexicans was carrying the bodies off to be buried in a mass grave out on the flats across the creek. Their big, wooden-wheeled carts creaked and groaned loudly as the corpse cargoes were borne out of town.
“Tom,” Bettina said, and she laid a hand across his. “Quiet down. Please try to unwind.”
Brand’s laugh was hollow. “Try to unwind when that bastard says he’ll buy my town out from under me!” Suddenly he stood up, pulled out his watch. “Hell, I’ve got time enough!”
“Time enough for what?” Bettina asked.
“To catch the morning westbound!” Brand shook his head like a tormented bull in fly time. “I will not— Do you hear? I will not allow that son of a bitch to take over my town! I’ve tried all the lower offices, El Paso, Fort Worth … But I’ve never been to Los Angeles! Now, by God, I’ll get there before he does! I’ll go straight to the top! When I get through, Fate Canady will never buy a foot of ground in Cartridge Creek! They’ll have to listen to me there!”
“Tom, wait, you’re tired—”
“I can’t wait, there’s too much to do!” Brand again threw off her hand. He turned, looked down at her, tenderness warring with his rage. “You’ll be all right. Canady’s promised to keep his men away from you, and I believe that. Just mind your own business and keep your door locked most of the time. Anyhow, there’s no help for it, I’ve got to leave you if I’m to save Cartridge Creek.” Eyes shuttling to Leatherman, he went on: “Will, I guess Canady said it plain. You’d be smart to leave before his deadline. But don’t write us off yet. Come back in a month, six weeks, and everything will be different. And—” He thrust out a big hand. “Thanks. Thanks for everything. More than I can say. If we don’t meet again, it’s been a pleasure.”
Leatherman took the hand; then Brand ripped free. “Tom!” Bettina cried, already on her feet, but he was gone, then. From far away, floating across the prairie, came the distant moan of a train whistle. It mingled with the sound of the door slamming behind Tom Brand.
Bettina turned, eyes circled with weariness, sank down again in her chair at the table, and now she and Leatherman were alone. She bowed her head, put it in her hand, rubbed her eyes. “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “I just don’t know …”
“Know what?” asked Leatherman gently.
Bettina raised her head. “How much is a town worth?” she asked. “How much is anything worth?” Like two burnt holes in a blanket, cowboys said of eyes like that. “Why won’t he—?” She broke off. “Will, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’ve had so much trouble since you came to Cartridge Creek and ... to my boarding house. And there’s something else I’m sorry for, too. Back there in the kitchen, before all this started …”
“I’m not sorry for that,” said Leatherman.
“Neither am I,” she said. “That’s what I was going to say. Even if you are only someone passing through, I don’t think I will ever forget you.” She arose, suddenly, and began to gather up plates and china. “Now, I’ve got to get some sleep. God knows, I don’t care if they come in by the dozens and try to … assault me, I’ve got to sleep.”
Leatherman got to his feet and came around the table. He put his hand on her arm, pulled her around. “Bett—” he said thickly.
She looked up at him with a mixture of willingness and fear. Something went through Leatherman like a hot iron. Quickly, he bent his head, touched her lips with his. “I won’t be leaving Cartridge Creek just yet,” he said, when he raised his head.
She shook her head, not in negation, but in confusion. There was distress in her eyes, and Leatherman read that and felt pity for her. He said, “I know. I’m the joker in the deck. Everybody’s deck. All right. Let it ride for now. Take the dishes off. I’ll wait out front and watch until Sully comes back from meeting the morning train.” He turned away and took up station at the front door. Through the glassless panel, he saw Brand, suitcase in hand, hurrying down the street, as the train’s whistle sounded once again.
Chapter Seven
Once he went to bed, Leatherman slept for nine solid hours. Even so, part of him was alert, listening for any disturbance. None came, but he would have been ready if it had, his guns hanging on the bedpost. When he awakened, the boarding house was silent, but Cartridge Creek itself seethed with life, all five bars going full blast, music jangling, male and female laughter blaring, an occasional gunshot sounding. The house was deserted when he went to the kitchen: Bettina slept in complete exhaustion and so did the other boarders. He made himself coffee and a pair of massive sandwiches, and then went back upstairs.
There he tried to put together everything he had learned about Cartridge Creek, but none of it made sense. The town itself was poison, and yet Tom Brand believed in it, and Tom Brand was an impressive man. He and O’Brien would have got along well together, Leatherman thought; they would understand each other immediately. And if everything else in Cartridge Creek was a debit, Tom Brand was definitely an asset … So, for that matter, was Ryan J. Sullivan.
There was potential here. Fate Canady saw it and Canady was smart. But Canady had seventy gunmen, give or take ten or a dozen, and Canady was an obstacle; it would take a crew as large as his or larger, maybe twice as big, to chase him out, and San Antonio Development did not have the money to hire that many men, even if they could be found, which was doubtful. No, Cartridge Creek was too long a shot … Without Canady, it would be a damned good buy, but with Canady gone, the railroad would not sell it anyhow. Best, thought Leatherman, to let it alone.
And yet his work here was not finished. There was the Gorman ranch, the G-Bar-G. He had to see that, could not return without at least taking a perfunctory look. Maybe a small side-profit could be made from that, pick it up cheap, unload it on some unwary English syndicate … Before he went back to San Antonio, he would have to take a look at it. And, he thought, Canady and his deadlines be damned …
Lying on his bed again, with his hands behind his head, he stared up at the ceiling. No matter how he ordered his thoughts, no matter how his reasoning worked, his mind always came back to her. That was ridiculous, absurd. He had known her only for a few hours. On the other hand, during those hours, he had been bandaged by her, had kissed her, had seen her under terrible pressure and had noticed how she had never faltered. What was it O’Brien had told him once? The words came back:
Will, there’s no way to explain it. One minute, you’re footloose and fancy-free and you can’t even remember their names two weeks later. Then you walk into a room—and there can be a hundred other women in it—and you look at each other, and then there’s not another woman in the world. That’s how I met Judy and—
His own sarcastic answer had been, “Jerry you oughta boss a trail herd some time. That’d knock all the romance out of you.”
“Maybe. On the other hand, someday you may just wake up feeling like you’ve been run over by one of those stampedes you talk about so much.”
But it was not like that. It did not feel like a stampede. It did not feel like anything he had ever felt before. He tried to put it from his mind; and, eventually, he slept. But even then, he dreamed of Bettina Grady and her lips on his and her body tight against his, and the sound of her voice and the way she looked and walked …
When he awakened once more, it was very early. He went to the window, looked down at the main street of Cartridge Creek in first daylight. The bodies were gone, it was only another town, everything fell into place with a kind of click. Another town and another woman, and he had to see the Gorman ranch, and then he could go on back to San Antonio and either the company went into bankruptcy or they found some other last-minute prospect. He was all right now, purged of dreams, imagination, everything except a need to complete his report for O’Brien and get the hell back to Texas. He dressed, buckled on his guns, and went downstairs.
Bettina was not up yet, neither was anyone else. Leatherman went out onto a quiet street—the gunmen slept late, too—and found the cafe, which was just opening. He had coffee there and something that passed for food, and when he went to the livery, Murdock had just opened the barn doors. He picked out a fair sorrel from a scratch lot of horses and mounted up. He walked the horse out on to the main street of the town and turned it north. Above the plaza, he reined in suddenly as a man came down off the porch of the Los Alamos and crossed his path. Hollister turned, looking at him with lynx eyes, gummy with sleep, his mouth a hard line in his yellow beard. Then he walked on, crossed the street, and strode down toward The Cattleman. Leatherman touched the horse with spurs and trotted out of town.
Morning wind was cool in his face as he put the horse up the valley of Cartridge Creek. It was good to be in the saddle again, even on a livery nag, and riding through open country. The sky was cloudless, the day would be fair and hot. The sorrel’s hoofs raised puffs of dust as it went at a smart pace. Leatherman sucked in long breaths as if to purge the air of Cartridge Creek from his lungs and surveyed the rangeland all around with a practiced, critical eye.
It was good land, but not as superb as Brand had indicated. He’d seen worse and he’d seen better. But, he thought, he’d best reserve his judgment until he’d reached the G-Bar-G and sized it up. Once he’d looked it over, he could justify his decision totally to O’Brien … And if it were not any better than this, that decision would be easy.
Gorman had mailed San Antonio Development a map and anyhow there were signs along the road. Fifteen miles above the town, Leatherman found the turnoff, but, instead of following it, wheeled the sorrel on a cross-country route. Experience had taught him to see the property before he approached the owner. Taking a bearing on the sun, he laid out a wide circle that should show him a fair cross section of the G-Bar-G. Once he was off the road, he went cautiously, keeping to cover, for he had no rifle with him, and he did not want to be mistaken for a rustler or to encounter any; all he wanted was to see the range.
Three hours later, he had seen a lot of it, and he was stunned. He had never expected anything like this. But if there was a place where cowmen hoped to go when they died, this was it, only this was real, substantial, a kind of cattleman’s paradise on earth.
The land was like the ocean, which Leatherman had seen on boats out of Galveston. It rolled off endlessly on either side in gentle swells, merging finally with the distant horizon. And everywhere on those swelling hills, there was grass—grama, bluestem, even the tight, curly buffalo grass. Dun-colored, dry-looking, even in the spring, he knew it for what it was: packed nourishment that would lay beef and tallow on any cattle that grazed it. He had never seen such grass: but the grass was not all of it. There had to be water, too, and shelter from winter storms, and a hundred other considerations to make range choice: the G-Bar-G lacked none of them.
The water: he saw the big springs welling up, sending rivulets across the land to merge with and feed the main stream of Cartridge Creek. He felt and tasted it, and by its coldness knew it would run all year around. He went down into the draws, the breaks, the canyons, and he found grass and water there as well, on ideal winter range. He ascended slopes far enough to see the timber on the hillsides, and in the openings between the hills, he saw meadows already horse-chest high with grass to cut for winter hay. He jumped deer, saw antelope bands go rocking off across the flats … Once or twice he ran into fences he had to skirt, but they were always where they belonged, never where they would cause pile-up and winter-kill. And they were solid and in good repair. One cattleman could form an estimate of another from his fences. Whatever Ralph Gorman might be, Leatherman thought, he was a rancher.
Or had been. There was the sobering reminder that, after all, there was too much grass. That meant too few cattle, which meant rustling, which meant Cartridge Creek. This range had been picked nearly clean. That damned town! Leatherman thought. It poisoned everything around it!
Still, it was hard to think of Cartridge Creek, as dazzled as he was by the perfection and magnificence of Gorman’s ranch. After a while, he was caught up in a kind of rapture, which had nothing to do with buying or selling land, only with the acknowledgment of the perfection of the range he rode across. He was in a kind of dream, and finally he realized that and tried to bring himself out of it hard and fast. It doesn’t matter, he told himself. It can be the best range in the world, and there’s always Cartridge Creek ... He tried to divorce his own personal reaction from his appraisal. Land, he thought. Jerry’s hammered it into you often enough. You buy it and sell it like crackers in a general store, and you keep your feelings out of it. Remember, he asked himself, what he said when you started out together? No matter how good the ranches are, you can’t keep them for yourself, Will … They’re just our stock in trade, no more.
