The Complete Western Legends Omnibus, page 3
They were three riders for the Double C, drinking it up pretty good and yelling at the bartender to throw them a deck of cards. Just as the barkeep was about to toss the cards, Cort took them from his hand. “I’ll be pleased to deliver ’em for you,” he said, and then walked over to the three Double C men.
“You fellers mind if I join in?” he asked amiably, placing the cards in the center of the table.
“If you have money, sit down, but if you’re busted, beat it,” came the response from the large cowboy directly across from Lacey.
As he sat down, Cort produced a handful of currency from the front pocket of his shirt and set it down in front of him. While they looked at his money, he looked at them. They’d be dangerous men, he could see, but dangerous in a brutal, unthinking sort of way.
The game was poker. Cort deliberately lost in order to build up a good humor among the others. Sometime later he dropped a baited hook into their conversation.
“Any of you boys own land in this valley?”
Their immediate answer was harsh laughter. Finally, the man on his left said, “If we did, we wouldn’t have it long, mister.” And then as an afterthought he added, “This whole valley is the property of one man—our boss.”
Was he too late?
Keeping his voice and expression detached and matter-of-fact, he asked, “One man you say? The whole valley?”
The three men looked at their cards, decided how many to keep, how many to throw away. No one answered his question for long, tortuous seconds.
Eventually the puncher on Cort’s right looked up from his cards and said absently, “No, not yet. Cliffords, that’s our boss, will own it all in a few days, few weeks at the most. But we sorta figure it’s as good as in the boss’ fat money belt right now.”
“Yeah,” the big man across from Cort chimed in, “as a matter of fact, mister, he’s buying out a small ranch just northeast of here. Getting it dirt cheap from an old lady whose husband died in a fair fight right over this table two nights ago.” The other two started snickering at the mention of the word “fair.” The big man kept a straight face and stared at Cort, trying to scare him into squirming. Cort just smiled.
The big man had taken a couple of cards. The other two and Cort had each taken three. Betting was heavy. The puncher on the right folded. The stakes were raised until there was ninety-five dollars in hard cash sitting in the middle of the table. This hand was far richer than the ones before and the winner would walk off with a sizeable piece of change. Still the betting continued until the man on Cort’s left dropped out, leaving just the big man and Lacey.
As the Double C man studied his cards and wondered what the stranger held, Cort, his head still hanging down over his cards, raised his eyes to his opponent and said, “I heard there was another feller killed in a ‘fair’ fight in this town just a few weeks ago. Any truth to the rumor?”
The big man was startled. There was a lot of money on the table—almost one hundred forty dollars—this was no time for chit-chat. “Sure,” he mumbled, not paying much attention to what he was saying, trying to concentrate on the game, “a crippled guy from the Five Fingers place ... ”
“You kill him?”
“What?”
“I asked if you killed him.”
The big man regained his composure, ignored the cards, and started acting the tough. “You bet I killed him. I’ll kill any man,” eyes blazing at Cort, “who gets in my way. Now if you’re through askin’ questions maybe we can settle this hand.”
“All right, what’ve you got?” Cort asked mildly. The big man, a satisfied grin on his face, set down three jacks. His two friends on either flank, smiled appreciatively ... until Cort showed three kings ... then their faces turned sullen and angry.
The Double C men exchanged glances. They were of one mind and only a fool would have been unable to guess their next move. Cort Lacey was no fool.
Before any of them could speak, Cort said quietly, “I hope none of you are going to start a ruckus, because if you do, I’ll kill the lot of you. And to my way of thinking, three to one is a ‘fair’ fight.”
None of them said a thing. The stranger had so startled the three men with his calm threat of death that they lost the edge of their courage. It didn’t take much. Face to face they’d always back down, because their kind of fighting was of the drygulching and back-shooting variety.
“Let me buy you fellers a drink,” Cort said as he rose. “I’ll meet you over by the bar after I put my winnin’s away. And while I’ve got my hands on the table pickin’ up this money, I don’t want to see any of you turnin’ my way. Just keep facin’ the bar, or I’ll have to spend some of this money buryin’ you. I wouldn’t want to throw good money after bad gamblers.”
The three Double C men scowled and walked to the bar, keeping their backs to Lacey. After putting the money inside his shirt, he walked up to the bar only to hear the big man mouthing off in an effort to repair his battered pride ... “That Bell widow, now, I’ll bet she’s ready for a real man after a dozen years married to a cripple. All I’ve got to do is catch her alone one time outside of Broken Rock Canyon and she’ll come crawlin’ back to me for more.”
Cort Lacey gritted his teeth. So far they didn’t know of his connection with the Five Fingers and he wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible. But he was mad.
“Put up four whiskies,” he said to the bartender. The three men looked at him with a combination of fear and hatred as they waited for the four shot glasses to be filled.
“You said something about a place northeast of here being sold today to your boss. That happen yet?” Cort asked as the last glass was filled.
None of them touched their drinks.
“The deal on the Frank place will be over as soon as Cliffords gets into town and then rides over there with the money. The old battle axe that still lives there won’t give us any trouble. She knows the price,” the big man said defiantly, with pride for the ruthless way William Cliffords conducted business.
Cort Lacey had all the information he needed for the present. Raising his drink, he proposed a toast. “To the vermin of the earth!” and then tossed the contents of his glass into the face of the big man.
All was still as liquor dripped off his nose. His two friends watched and waited for the moment when the big man would go for his gun. That moment never came. Something inside told the loudmouth if he braced this stranger he would die. With as much bluster as he could manage despite his reddened face, the big man made a hollow threat ... “There’ll be another time!”
Cort Lacey smiled and backed out toward the rear door, which he knew was unlocked from his earlier scouting of the saloon. Then he paused. “I hope there will be another time ... even if it means you’ll be shooting at my back. I know your type. You’ll get scared and shoot too soon or too late. Then I’ll track you down and leave the remains for any buzzard with the gumption to pick at your rotten carcass. Yeah, I hope there will be a next time—I don’t like the way you mouth about women ... ” And then he disappeared out the back door.
Stealthily, like a desert cat, he made his way out the back alley of the saloon, through two side streets and another alley ’til he came upon the kitchen door of the Chapman Hotel. He had no time now to fight with the three men he left open-mouthed in the Mustang. While in the saloon, a plan of action had formed in his mind. He had to act quickly if it was to work.
If he remembered the valley correctly, only one tract of land in the northeast quarter wasn’t owned by the Five Fingers spread. That land would have to be the Frank place. Now if a rider—or riders—were unable to pass through the smaller Frank holdings, they’d have a hell of a time trying to gain entrance to Broken Rock Canyon. But it was even more crucial than that. Any Five Fingers people coming into town would find it impossible to return to their home if Cliffords owned and armed this strategically placed bit of real estate.
Without doubt, Cliffords would do it. If he had had John Bell and this feller Frank killed, he wouldn’t hesitate to blockade five families into starvation and ultimate submission.
Once entering the hotel, he went directly to his room. The contents of his saddle-bag formed the key to his plan, and he had to retrieve them before heading for the livery. With the heavy bags slung over his shoulder and his Winchester in hand, he walked carefully through the hotel to Mr. Chapman at the front desk.
“Here’s my key and two bits for the hot bath I took earlier this afternoon.”
“Leaving so soon, Mr. Evans? Why, you haven’t even been here overnight. Don’t you like our town?”
“I like your town just fine, but I’ve got a little business that needs attendin’ to.”
“You leaving the valley, Mr. Evans?” Chapman pumped.
Cort made a point of not answering. Chapman, therefore, made a point of not being so foolish as to repeat his question.
He had every intention of leaving the hotel by way of the kitchen as he had entered, but a commotion out on the main street drew his attention to the front door.
Three people in a buckboard in front of Clay’s General Store were being harassed by the Double C men Cort had previously faced down in the Mustang Saloon.
A knot formed in his stomach when he recognized the folks in the buckboard ... a grayer, older Thaddeus Clark, a young man Cort guessed to be Thaddeus’ son Mark, and Clare, sitting proud, straight, and as lovely as ever. Could it have been twelve years since he had seen her last? It seemed, at this moment, as if he had been watching her from a distance all his life.
Those hardcases from the Double C were finding their courage against an old man, a boy and a woman. Instinctively, he stepped out of the hotel to assure the safety of his old friends, but a combination of his reluctance to be recognized and just plain common sense stopped him. What if, while on the street, Cliffords and more of his riders came in to town, as they were expected to most anytime? No, there was a better way to do this.
Stepping back into the hotel, Cort motioned for the proprietor to join him. “Mr. Chapman,” he said soothingly, “I’d like you to do me a favor.”
“Why of course Mr. Evans, I’d be glad to assist you. What would you like me to do?”
“You see those fellers over there by that buckboard?’
“Yes, but, I didn’t think you meant ... I don’t want to get in the middle of ... ”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Chapman, you won’t be in the middle. All I want you to do is walk over there and tell those three gentlemen that Mr. Evans, the man who won the last pot, has this here rifle,” he said, pointing the barrel of his Winchester in Keith Chapman’s face, “and that if they don’t mosey on back to the Mustang, pronto, I’ll use it on ’em. Got the message?”
“Sure,” he said glumly, “I’ve got it.”
“Don’t look so sad. Here’s five dollars for your trouble. And don’t worry, nothin’s gonna happen to you. As soon as you deliver that message—and not a word more or less—you take a walk into the general store. Thanks for your help, Mr. Chapman.”
“Yeah, any time,” the hotel man sighed. Then he walked out the door to deliver Cort Lacey’s ultimatum.
After Mr. Chapman had walked twenty paces, Cort quietly slipped away from the front door of the hotel and exited, as he had planned, from the kitchen. Quickly, yet silently, he worked his way through back alleys and late afternoon shadows, weaving an indirect passage to his dun in the stable.
Halfway to his destination, he heard a buckboard’s creaking movement. Chancing a fleeting appearance on the street, he saw the welcome sight of Thaddeus and his son and daughter leaving Cliffordsville unmolested. As he had expected, his threat was enough to deter the Double C hardcases. Then it was back to the shadows.
Minutes later he was saddling his rested horse and securing his saddle-bag. He led the big raw-boned gelding out the back door and walked him toward the northeast, always keeping the stable between himself and the saloon ... until he heard the thunder of galloping horses. “That would be William Cliffords and his crew,” he told himself. “Not much time. I’d better get a move on.”
He mounted up and let the horse have its head. Like sagebrush in a windstorm, they moved effortlessly across the floor of the valley. Cort’s only precaution, finally, was to keep well behind the buckboard, which was also headed to the northeast.
Cliffords and his men, riding at an average pace, would arrive at the Frank place, Cort figured, about fifteen or twenty minutes after he would. He hoped he’d have enough time to state his proposition to old Mrs. Frank.
Chapter Four
Cort rode to within three hundred feet of the seemingly deserted Frank cabin.
“Hello, the house,” he yelled.
No answer.
Dismounting, he led the horse a few steps closer. “Hello, the house,” he yelled again.
No answer.
Slowly and carefully, he walked to within one hundred and fifty feet of the front door. Suddenly, a rifle barrel jutted out a window and the hard, brittle voice of an old woman said, “That’s close enough stranger. State your business.”
“Do I have the pleasure of speakin’ to Mrs. Frank?”
“You do. But you won’t have it long. I’m expectin’ trouble from a passle of jackals who’ll be here most anytime. Don’t get yourself caught in a crossfire, young feller. Get up on your fine horse and ride out.”
“Well, I figure I’ve got the better side of fifteen minutes before those people you’re expectin’ arrive. And it seems to me you have no plans for sellin’ out to the Double C.”
“How’d you know about that, stranger? You a new hand for William Cliffords?”
“No ma’am.”
“What do you want?”
“I’d like to buy into your ranch.”
Old Mrs. Frank got a good laugh out of that. Cort could hear cackling even when she tried to muffle the laughter in her shawl.
“Mister, you’re either plumb loco or the worst businessman I ever run across, save for my poor husband, God rest his soul. If you know about Double C, then you know I’ve got to settle for four cents an acre or six feet of dirt. Why’re you interested in buyin’ into my trouble?”
“I haven’t got a lot of time to explain ... ”
She cut him off and the rifle barrel disappeared into the cabin. A moment later, crusty old Mrs. Frank stood in the doorway.
“Come a little closer young feller, so I can see your face—but don’t forget this rifle is still pointing at you.”
Cort, knowing that time would soon be running out, stepped briskly up to the cabin.
“You were about to tell me why a perfect stranger would want to buy into a ranch that hasn’t once turned a decent profit in the last nine years, and that’s about to be overrun by a bunch of murderin’ hardcases,” Mrs. Frank said contemptuously.
“I’d hoped you wouldn’t ask,” Cort answered lightly. “I hoped you’d just be glad to get some money—better than four cents an acre—and that you’d be glad to have an extra gun to face Cliffords.”
“Well, I’m askin’. All I have is your own assurance you’re not one of Cliffords’ men. It’s not like him to go crafty, so I doubt this is his idea, but still I can’t be sure. I’ve got to know your reasons. The money I might make sellin’ to you won’t do me no good if you shoot me in the back when Cliffords gets here. I could use your gun, if you’re half as good with it as I expect by the looks of you. But, one extra gun, no matter how good, doesn’t amount to much against Cliffords’ pack of hired gunslingers. You’ve got reasons, and before I let you in here, I want to know what they are. It’s the only way I can trust you.”
Cort could faintly hear the rumble of horse’s hooves not far in the distance. Time was running out. He wondered if she too could hear them coming.
The rifle was still tilted in his direction. He’d either be shot in the back by Cliffords or shot in the chest by Mrs. Frank. There was just no give in this old lady. He knew he’d have to tell her, and even then he couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t plug him for just being who he was.
“Mrs. Frank, the reason I’m here is kind of complicated. Cliffords should be comin’ most any minute now. All I’ve got time to tell you is my name ... Cort Lacey.”
“Cort Lacey ... I’ll be damned. Grab your gear and get yourself in here, son. I know your brother Sam.” There were only seconds to spare when the door closed behind Cort and old Mrs. Frank. Cliffords, at the head of a small contingent of riders, had just come into view of the cabin, not more than five hundred feet away.
“We’ll talk later Mrs. Frank. Would you mind if I handle this my own way?”
“It’s okay with me just so long as you stop callin’ me Mrs. Frank. Sam and the other Five Fingers folks call me Ella—figure you can do the same.”
“Sure, Ella.” And then Cort’s hard, gray eyes softened for an instant when he asked, “How is Sam?”
“He’s fine, son, just fine. Now you just take care of yourself.”
Cort opened the cabin door, Winchester pointed at Cliffords’ heart, just as the Double C owner was about to call out to Mrs. Frank.
At the sight of Cort’s rifle, Cliffords’ expression changed from cock-sure confidence to bewilderment.
“Who are you and where’s that crazy coot of an old woman who owns this land?” the ranch owner demanded.
Before Cort could answer, from inside the house came the bitter laugh of Ella Frank. “You’ll find out soon enough who he is, Cliffords. And as for me, you snot-nose, you’ll call me Mrs. Frank or get off our land right now.”
“What do you mean?” Cliffords asked, “Who else owns this land besides you ... Mrs. Frank?” he amended, seeing her rifle barrel stick through the window.
“What she means, Cliffords, is that I’m the new part owner,” Cort informed him.
“That’s right you thievin’ murderer. If my husband, God rest his soul ... ”
“Ella,” Cort said gently over his shoulder, “you remember who it was said he’d handle this?”
