Shawn Starbuck Double Western 6, page 20
“We’ll satisfy them,” Shawn said, and motioned to Stark. “You and the men head back to the ranch. I’ll take Caleb and go into town. Want to set things up with that storekeeper.”
Emmett nodded, began to veer away with the riders. Caleb grinned admiringly. “Nothing like keeping a wagon rolling once you get it started!” he said. “Now, if we just don’t get potshot by Jack and McCoskey while we’re going through the woods, everything ought to work out fine!”
Sixteen
They encountered no interference from Mallory and his friends and rode into Parsonville around midday. The settlement, no more than half a dozen weather-grayed structures, appeared deserted except for several horses standing slack-hipped at the hitch rack fronting Kottman’s Saloon.
“That’ll be Jack and Rafe and their bunch,” Caleb said, eyeing the mounts critically. “Could figure on them holing up there.”
Shawn murmured his agreement and swung his horse up to the general store. Caleb pulled in beside him and they dismounted together, secured their horses, and crossing the wide porch, entered.
Rabinowitz, a squat, dark-faced man with a fixed smile, adjusted his black sateen sleeve guards and came from behind a counter into the center of the well-stocked room.
“It is good to see you, Caleb,” he said, and looked questioningly at Shawn.
“Name’s Starbuck,” the wrangler stated by way of an introduction. “He’s took over running Stingaree for Missus Mallory.”
The merchant inclined his head sadly. “About King I have heard. A terrible thing. The lady I will soon tell my condolences, when my boy comes to take care of the store.”
“You hear about it from Jack?”
Rabinowitz said, “Yes, from him ... There is something I can do for you?”
Starbuck outlined his agreement with Rafferty. “Leaving it up to you and him. Expecting you both to treat Mrs. Mallory fair.”
“She is a fine lady and my best customer. Also is the Stingaree ranch. I would not cheat the Mallorys. An itemized list will be furnished of all that is bought.”
“Think you’ll have everything Rafferty will need?” Starbuck asked, glancing about.
“All I am sure. The lumber I can get from the sawmill by dark. I will send my boy with an order of what I believe Mr. Rafferty will want.”
“Good. Like to clean up the matter right away. One thing more, if there’s anybody else around with a beef against King Mallory, I’d like to hear it.”
A smile tugged at the corners of the storekeeper’s mouth. “This also I have heard—that you will make good all of King Mallory’s—ah—a—transactions. This I did not believe.”
“You can,” Caleb said flatly. “Starbuck aims to make it up to anybody King skinned.”
Rabinowitz nodded slowly. “Such a long time that could take—”
“I’m talking about land,” Shawn said. “Can’t be all that many men that he squeezed out of the valley.”
“It is true, and there are some who have moved away.”
“That’s the way I see it. Like to see those who still are here. Be obliged to you if you’ll pass the word along. Tell them to come out to the ranch.” Starbuck paused, then added: “Don’t guess you remember me, but I stopped by a time back. Was asking about my brother—if you’d seen him.”
Rabinowitz bobbed his head hurriedly. “It is only now I remember you! Your brother, yes.... I didn’t know you had gone to work for King ... You have found nothing of your brother?”
“No. Was wondering if he’d passed through here since I asked.”
“A few drifters, yes. Him, no. It is not a main road we are on, but I will watch.”
“Appreciate it,” Starbuck said, turning away. Disappointment at receiving no word of Ben had long ago lost its sharp edge; he accepted such now as a matter of course.
But something had been accomplished; the arrangement to rebuild Arrowhead’s destroyed property was now completed, and only minor items remained.
“You reckon we could spare the time for a drink?” Caleb wondered plaintively as they moved through the doorway onto the porch.
“No reason why not,” Shawn answered, and slowed his step.
Ranged in a half circle fronting the store were six men—Jack Mallory, McCoskey, and the riders who had chosen to join them when they departed Stingaree. All had been drinking, with Jack apparently taking the honors.
“Can savvy now why they wasn’t laying for us out in the brush,” Caleb said quietly.
Shawn resumed his stride, crossed the porch, and stepped down to street level. Halting in front of the line, he folded his arms, faced Mallory.
“Something on your mind?”
“You—damn you!” Jack yelled and jerked out his pistol.
Starbuck’s hand swept out, knocked the weapon from the man’s grasp, sent it into the dust. Motion to the side caught at the corner of his eye. He pulled back as McCoskey lunged, was a shade slow. Rafe’s weight thudded into him with solid force and he went down.
“All of you—just keep back!” he heard Caleb Fain yell warningly as he rolled to his feet.
McCoskey, eyes bright, lips drawn back into a toothy grin, closed in again, both fists swinging. Shawn took a glancing blow on the head, another on the shoulder as he stumbled into Jack Mallory. Swearing, he pivoted, came squarely about. Throwing up his left arm, he blocked another swinging right of McCoskey’s, stalled the gunman in his tracks with a hard right to the jaw.
Rafe rocked on his heels, shook his head as if to throw off the effects, and came on. Starbuck, twisting and turning as he tried to free himself of Mallory’s clawing hands dragging at his shoulders, stabbed McCoskey in the eyes with a knuckled left, crossed with a right.
The gunman howled a curse. “Get a hold of him, goddammit! Grab him by the arms!”
Dust, churned up by scuffling boots, was beginning to hang in a brown-gray cloud in the street. Two men had come out of Kottman’s, were watching from the landing. Rabinowitz had also been drawn into the open by the sounds of the encounter and was standing in front of his door, features strained and anxious.
Starbuck, weary from being up at so early an hour, sweaty and low on patience, freed himself of Mallory with a quick whirl to one side. Instantly he swung on McCoskey. He jabbed the gunman with his left, turned him half around, nailed him with a solid right—and staggered forward as Mallory flung himself upon his back.
Instantly McCoskey bored in, taking full advantage of the moment. He brought an uppercut from his heels, barely missed with it as Shawn jerked his head to one side. Moving fast, he followed with a second blow that caught the tall rider on the ear.
Seething, but remembering old Hiram Starbuck’s admonition never to lose his temper at such moments, Shawn threw himself to the left. Mallory, caught off guard, twisted partly around, slackened his grasp. Starbuck locked on the man’s wrist with one hand, his hair with the other, and bracing himself with spread legs, buckled forward.
Mallory yelled in pain, fought to keep his balance as he rocked uncertainly on his feet. Still holding the man’s wrist, Shawn whirled, swung him hard into Rafe McCoskey. The gunman swore wildly as they came together and both went down in a dust-raising tangle of legs, arms, and bodies.
Instantly Starbuck moved in on them. Grabbing McCoskey’s collar, he pulled the man to his knees, drove a balled fist mercilessly into his jaw. As Rafe fell away, Shawn reached for Mallory, caught him in a viselike grip with his left hand, smashed him on the chin with his right.
With both men sprawled in the street, Starbuck stepped back, sucking hard for wind. He flung a glance at the other riders. They were watching silently, hands raised under the steady aim of Caleb Fain’s pistol.
“Pick ’em up!” he snarled. “Get ’em out of here!”
Milo Green and the one they called Tuck started forward, paused, looked questioningly at the wrangler and his menacing weapon. It was evident that neither wanted any misunderstanding at that moment.
“You heard him!” Caleb said, lowering his gun slightly. “And when they come to, be telling them they’d best stay out of sight.”
Shawn leaned against the corner post of Rabinowitz’s porch. Wadding his neckerchief, he mopped at the sweat and dust caked on his face and blurring his eyes, and watched the punchers drag McCoskey and Jack Mallory to their feet.
“Don’t be toting them over to Kottman’s,” Fain warned. “That’s where me and my partner are headed.”
Milo Green slowed his step. “Then where the hell—”
“Morgan’s barn,” Caleb replied, waving his pistol at a bulky, long-abandoned structure at the end of the street. “It’s good enough for them two.”
Mallory was stirring weakly. McCoskey, however, supported on both sides by two of his friends, still hung limply between them as they moved off through the thinning haze.
The old wrangler holstered his six-gun, swung his satisfaction-filled eyes to Shawn. “Now, about that there drink—”
Starbuck ruefully touched the side of his face where Rafe McCoskey had landed a solid blow. “Can use one,” he said, and pulled away from the porch.
Seventeen
The word spread quickly. That next day, near mid-afternoon, as Starbuck sat at King Mallory’s desk checking through a leather folder containing deeds and other papers pertinent to the ranch, two men rode in and asked to see him.
Matters were proceeding smoothly at Stingaree. There had been nothing more heard from Jack and his friends, although Mrs. Mallory did inquire about her son when Shawn made his report to her on the deal he’d made with Boone Rafferty. King Mallory had been laid to rest, Frank Price had resumed his proper stance as foreman, and all hands had settled down to the ordinary business of raising cattle. He was well along the way to clearing up Stingaree’s problems, Shawn thought; the job wasn’t proving to be as difficult as he’d anticipated.
The first of the two claimants, a small, thin man named Woodson, had owned property adjoining the ranch on the west.
“Was a nice little farm,” he declared belligerently. “Was doing fine, then Mallory comes along and tells me flat out he wants my land.”
“You get paid for it?” Starbuck asked, glancing at Caleb Fain sitting across the office from him.
“Ain’t saying I didn’t, but I was cheated. Never got half what the place was worth.”
Caleb shifted on his chair, wagged his head. “Now Ira, you know that ain’t true. Sure King said he could use your land, but you come to him first saying you wanted to sell. Can recollect just what you said because I was with him.”
“Well, I—”
“You told him you was sick to death of farming and that you could see now that it wasn’t fit for growing but only for cattle, and you wanted to quit.”
Woodson thrust his hands into the pockets of his stained trousers, shrugged. “Well, maybe it was something like that, but I should’ve got more money.”
“King give you what you paid for the land, seems.”
“Didn’t get nothing for the house I had on it.”
“House! Ira, that weren’t no more’n a lean-to, and you damn well know it! Couldn’t even be used for a line shack, it was so poor. King had the boys go over and burn the whole shebang soon’s you’d moved off.”
Woodson made no comment. Starbuck, locating the quitclaim among Mallory’s papers, scanned it briefly.
“Appears to me you were treated fair,” he said. “You wanted to sell. Mallory gave you what you’d paid for the place.”
“’Cepting that he hankered to own everything in the valley, I don’t know why King bought it anyway,” Caleb said. “Sure wasn’t no use to him.”
Shawn tucked the deed back into the folder. “Nothing I can do for you.”
Anger flared through Woodson. “Can see you’re going to be just like old King—beating folks out of their just dues same as he done! Way I heard it you was aiming to make up for all the mean tricks he pulled, but you ain’t no different. Just all talk—”
“Simmer down, Ira,” Fain said quietly. “Why don’t you just own up to it that you’re trying to do a little skinning yourself? You heard what Starbuck here’s trying to do for Missus Mallory and you figured you’d try grabbing onto a few dollars more for that hardscrabble cabbage patch you was so happy to get shed of. Ain’t that the real truth?”
Woodson looked down. “Was only hoping to get fair pay for what was mine.”
“You got it,” the old man said, “so you might as well forget trying to hornswoggle the Mallorys out of any more.”
Woodson turned away, moved toward the door. He hesitated there for a moment, then with a resigned twist of his shoulders stepped out into the yard.
Caleb grinned. “Reckon we can’t fault a man for trying.”
“Guess not,” Shawn agreed. “Probably have a few more just like him. Reason I want you around. Need you to help me separate the sheep from the goats.”
The old wrangler dug into his jacket, produced a blackened pipe and a doeskin pouch of tobacco, sank deeper into his chair. “Well, I can’t think of nobody King didn’t pay something to. Maybe he scared them into selling, things like that, but he always forked over the hard cash. The argufying comes from whether it was enough or not.”
Emmett Stark appeared, halted, stood framed in the doorway. “That jasper that was just here,” he said, frowning. “Rode off cussing us good. Said he aimed to get even with Stingaree.”
“Had no claim,” Shawn explained.
Stark scratched at his jaw doubtfully. “I—I don’t know. He must’ve felt he had a call coming. Maybe we ought to take care of him anyway—just to keep everything peaceable and going right.”
Shawn considered the puncher in silence. Caleb was not the only one who had changed. Whereas the old wrangler seemed to withdraw into a shell of resentment in the presence of Emmett, the rider was assuming an air of authority where the ranch was concerned. Recalling the fact that he and Christine Mallory planned to marry, Starbuck supposed it was only natural. But until Theodosia Mallory herself relieved him of his duties he would continue to exercise his own judgment—the approval of Stark notwithstanding.
“A man comes here with a just claim, he’ll get satisfaction,” Shawn said. “The ones trying to swindle us will get turned down.”
“And that’s what Ira Woodson was up to,” Caleb said, seemingly enjoying the moment. “Far as him stirring up any trouble, he ain’t got get-up enough to holler sooey if the hogs was rooting him.”
Stark’s mouth tightened. “Have it your way,” he said stiffly, and glanced over his shoulder. “Here comes another one.”
Caleb rose, looked out into the sunlight-flooded yard. “Henry Carr. Was squatting on a place down at the south part of the range. Good spring there and King figured he needed it for a water hole.”
Shawn flipped through the deeds, located one signed by Carr ... One hundred and sixty acres—one hundred and sixty dollars. “The water all that was worth anything?”
Fain shrugged. “Oh, expect Henry was doing all right. Water’s about all a man needs in this country to make a farm grow, but it wasn’t no great shakes of a place.”
The wrangler hushed and Stark drew back as steps sounded on the landing outside King Mallory’s office. Carr entered, a gray, leathery man with stolid features.
“You Mr. Starbuck?” he asked, ignoring the other men and fixing his small, sharp eyes on Shawn.
Starbuck nodded. “What can I do for you?”
“Name’s Henry Carr. Caleb there knows me. Had a farm down a ways and King Mallory come and took it away from me. When I heard he was dead and that you was looking to make things right with them that he robbed, I decided I’d come talk to you.”
Shawn picked up the deed, held it so that Carr might see the signature. “You sign this?”
“My name and writing sure enough. Ain’t denying that.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Problem’s that I plain didn’t want to sell. Told King that three, four times. Was just me and my old woman and we was getting along fine on the place. Had most all we wanted and couldn’t see no reason to give it up.
“But King, he wouldn’t take no for a answer. Kept deviling me. Then one night a bunch of his men rode their horses through my corn and vegetable garden. Tromped everything into the ground. Next day King showed up with that there paper for me to sign. Flang me eight double eagles and said for me to put my name on it and move.
“Well, way things was, my crop lost and me not being young no more and him crowding me the way he was, I figured I’d best do what he wanted. So I signed and moved.”
Shawn glanced at Caleb for confirmation. The wrangler nodded.
“Now, I didn’t come here begging,” Carr continued. “I could’ve stayed put, I reckon, and maybe King would’ve give up and let me alone, and maybe he wouldn’t. I sure don’t know, but I don’t feel like I got a square deal.”
“You think you ought to have more money?”
“Nope, I’d like to have my place back. Me and my woman ain’t done no good since we was drove off. Money he give me didn’t last long and I can’t hold no job nowhere. Man my age don’t get work so easy. Figured if I could have my farm back, I could maybe get on my feet again.”
Starbuck mulled the problem about. One hundred and sixty acres, even though it had a spring on it, was a small parcel of ground where Stingaree was concerned—and there was plenty of water available elsewhere for the cattle.
“You agreeable to paying back the money Mallory gave you for the land?”
“Sure,” Carr said, scuffing the floor with the toe of his run-down boots, “only I ain’t got it. Do have a few dollars but it’ll take them to buy seed and vittles so’s I can get started again.”
Starbuck reached for a blank sheet of paper and a pen, wrote out a promissory note for the hundred and sixty dollars. Shoving the paper toward Carr and handing him the pen, he said, “All right, you get your place back but you’ll have to sign a note for the money Mallory paid you.”
