The Second Western Megapack Read online

  “Two-thousand-dollar reward!” I gasps, flabbergasted.

  “Yep.… Reckon I’ll eat with yuh.” “Sure. Fill up your belly. Stay all night, too. I wouldn’t think o’ lettin’ you ride away empty and sleepy.”

  But I ain’t sincere. Doggone that John Law! I wish he’d vamoose an’ never come back. In the chuck wagon is the only man as can pilot our herd through Cayuse Brakes, the man as was trusted by Cap Dillingham—a wanted outlaw.

  Dutton swings off. Raw Beef Oliver shows him some of his famous grub in the dutch ovens. Loadin’ up his plate, the sheriff sets down on one of two bed rolls what’s close together with a tarp throwed over ’em. I see him bend and kinder squint down under that tarp. Gosh! He hops up sudden an’ throws that tarp aside, exposin’ Jinglin’ Jimmy’s saddle!

  “Who the hell does this kack belong to?”

  I jus’ gulp, but ol’ Raw Beef, who I know musta hid the saddle, grunts, unconcerned, “Why, what’s wrong? It’s mine.”

  Dutton looks skeptical. “What you doin’ with a saddle?”

  “Got to leave the chuck wagon an’ use a pack outfit to cross that dang country,” replies Raw Beef, wavin’ his hand at them hills on our west. “I bring my outfit ’long, of course.”

  The sheriff sets down and laps up his grub. I throw Raw Beef a plum’ grateful look. He’s right ’bout us havin’ to take to a pack hoss outfit, but his old hull is in the wagon!

  “If I was you, Sheriff,” I remarks, “I’d trail that outlaw. If I could spare any men I’d send ’em with you, too.”

  “Thanks, I don’t need help. I’ve decided I am goin’ to track that cuss. I’ll camp on his trail t’night.”

  Jumpin’ up, he forks his black. “I still claim you orter held the son-of-a-gun,” he snaps at me. “If he comes near your outfit again, grab him!”

  “Sure ’preciate your backin’ my play, Oliver,” sez I to Raw Beef, awful relieved to see that John Law ride away.

  “Hell! you an’ me is old-timers,” sez Raw Beef, partin’ his ’normous mustache and squirtin’ tobacco juice into the fire. “We got to deliver these yere dogies to Cap Dillingham, we have. The Law’s outa sight. Come eat, Mason.”

  Mason climbs outa the wagon. I swing onto my saddled hoss, rope a nag for Mason outa the cavvy—he can use Jinglin’s saddle—and lope out to relieve the boys with the herd.

  “Sheriff Dutton get that bandit?” inquires Cal Bassett, the first waddy I run onto. “We sure wanted to see what was goin’ on, but these danged steers was so ringy we couldn’t leave ’em.”

  “Mason’s still with us, Cal.” “Wh—at?”

  Cash Martin and Roper Dixon lopes up to me and Bassett. I sez to all three hands: “What Mason’s done, or what he is, don’t make a damn bit of difference to us, savvy? With us he’s no outlaw. Jus’ a cowpuncher, one of this outfit. All of yuh savvy?”

  Roper Dixon says he does. A rawboned six-footer, Dixon. A rough, ornery jasper; hair like a black hoss’s mane; black eyes; busted nose; knuckles all broke from scrappin’. A plenty tough nut, but one of the best hands with a rope ever I seen.

  “But, man, that reward—” begins Cash Martin, a sandy-complected, sawed-off, barrel-chested jigger. Cash’s eyes is jus’ about as shifty as Cal Bassett’s.

  “I savvy,” interrupts Bassett, lookin’ every place but at me.

  Without sayin’ nothin’ more the three punchers head for the wagon. But I’m powerful uneasy about them jaspers. Dunno whether I can depend on ’em or not. Mason rides out to join me. The steers has quieted down and is restin’ easy, so me and him has a few words, nightherdin’ there under the stars.

  “Wal, cowboy,” I start the confab, “are you goin’ to see me through with these cattle?”

  “You bet your boots, I am,” he replies emphatic. “Deliverin’ this herd is as much my job as your’n, Bill. You see, Cap Dillingham is dependin’ on me.”

  “So?” sez I. “Dillingham knowed you was—what you was, when he hired you, Mason?”

  “Yes.”

  “That reward on your cabeza straight goods?”

  The lean-jawed, blond hombre nods his head. “Howsoever, Bill Swift, I’ll give you my word I’m tryin’ now to ride a straight trail. ’Nuff said.”

  “Just a minute,” I persists. “Who’s Yardley and where does he hang out?”

  “I passed my word that I’d never say nothin’ about Black Yardley.” Mason gives me a look outer his steely eyes that kinda makes my flesh creep, and he leaves me abrupt.

  At daybreak Jinglin’ Jimmy hasn’t returned, nor has Sheriff Dutton showed up again. We pack some ponies with beds and grub and head our herd into them Cayuse Brakes, Mason takin’ the point. ’Tain’t long afore our thousand head of steers is strung out like a snake, twistin’ between little hills, climbing up some steep slopes and droppin’ down others. A mile-long snake, windin’ through that trackless country; avoidin’ bogholes, blind canyons and sheer cliffs.

  Along about noon—we ain’t intendin’ to stop for dinner until the drive for the day is finished—big Roper Dixon jogs up aside me where I’m workin’ in the swing.

  “Bill,” he sez, “tain’t up to me to say nothin’ ’bout what’s your business, but did it occur to you as how Mason is probably leadin’ this herd straight to some rustler pals?”

  “Dixon, that hombre brought the High Man a letter from Cap Dillingham. Dillingham trusts him.”

  The puncher fixes his black eyes on me and curls his lips derisive. “Who sez Dillingham trusts him? That letter might ha’ been forged!”

  “I trust Mason, too,” I come back proddy. “Better drop back ’longside the herd, Roper.”

  Dixon turns his hoss. “Thought I’d put yuh wise to what me an’ Martin an’ Bassett all think,” he remarks. “Mebbe soon your eyes’ll be opened plenty.”

  Maybe they will at that. Food for mighty uneasy thought, them words of Roper’s.

  ‘Long ’bout four in the afternoon we reach a sizable open basin, and Mason ridin’ back to meet me, says, “Camp here. Wood, water and grass. Yonder’s an old corral, too—if you got any need for it.”

  “I hasn’t,” sez I. “But it looks like somebody branded cattle here one time.”

  “One time?” Mason sez, grinnin’. “I rode to that corral afore you hove in sight. It’s been used right recent.”

  Thinkin’ ’bout what Roper Dixon had said, I grunts, “Recent, huh? You know who used it, Mason?”

  The outlaw looks plum’ through me. “Bill Swift, it’s a wonder to me you ever growed up or got old on the range—the damn fool questions you ask.” Pourin’ up into the open area come the cattle, Martin, Dixon, Bassett appear one by one. Lastly our cavvy, Raw Beef Oliver, and with him Jinglin’ Jimmy. I spur to the kid. “Sure tickled to see you, Jimmy. Did you throw the sheriff off your trail?”

  “Say, I had heaps of fun with that John Law. I just imagined I was—was Lame Larson, outlaw, bein’ chased by a sheriff.” Jinglin’s eyes is shinin’. “Yeah, I throwed him off all jake. This yere gray hoss is one humdinger. Whar’d you get him, Mason?”

  “That’s a hell of a question to ask an outlaw,” pipes up Cal Bassett in that high, squeaky voice of his’n.

  Mason throws a look at Bassett what I wouldn’t want throwed my way, and the confab breaks up abrupt.

  * * * *

  That night everything ’pears jake. Mason and me stands first guard over the steers. Bassett, Martin and Dixon is to stand second. Two shifts, half the night each, us bein’ short-handed and havin’ a sizable bunch of cattle to ride round.

  I’m in bed and sound asleep when hell busts loose. A shot and a yell wakes me and I pop from under my tarp with a gun in my fist. It’s light enough for me to see two men battlin’ a third, an’ another one lyin’ on the ground groanin’. I rush toward the battlers. Roper Dixon and Cal Bassett is wrestlin’ somethin’ fierce and terrible with Mason. As I run, they down him and hold him. Raw Beef Oliver jumps ’longside me and we both stumble over
the hombre on the ground—Cash Martin, shot through the chest and dyin’.

  “Hey, you rannies!” I beller. “What—” “Stand back!” hollers Bassett. “We’ve nabbed this danged bandit!”

  “The son-of-a-buzzard shot Martin afore I could grab his gun arm,” Roper sings out, husky, like he’s outa wind, powerful jasper though he is.

  “Say, you coyotes, who’s with the herd?” I yelp, thinkin’ of the cattle immejit. “Nobody? Doggone your hides, what d’you think—”

  “We’ve done our thinkin’, Bill Swift,” Bassett squeals. “Me and Roper and Martin figgered this out. I admit I had it in for Lame Larson—alias Mason—anyhow.”

  “But I’m tellin’ you to let Mason alone an’ forget this foolishness!” I order, emphatic.

  “Foolishness?” Bassett comes back plenty insolent. “I know what you’ll say, Bill Swift. You’ll say we got to stay with your herd. We say, ‘T’ hell with ’em!’ Neither me nor Roper Dixon gives two whoops ’bout them dogies. We’re c’lectin’ two thousand bucks reward. Put that in your pipe an’ smoke it.”

  “Furthermore,” rumbles Dixon, still settin’ on Mason’s head, “this cussed gun-slinger has salivated Cash Martin. D’yuh think yuh can argue with us after that?”

  “Argument’s open right now with hot lead,” I beller, and old Raw Beef leaves abrupt, to race back to his bed. The old-timer had forgot to bring his gun when he jumped outa his blankets. I’m scairt our cattle, unguarded, will stampede any second. That one shot might ha’ roused ’em. But in the followin’ second I hear the cavvy bells on our ponies tinklin’ up in the basin and hear Jinglin’ Jimmy callin’ to the cattle, “Sho’ now, dogies, don’t you spook. Quiet down, dogies.”

  Some kid, that Jimmy. He’s left his hosses and is tryin’ to hold the cattle, ’stead of rushin’ to camp to see what the hell, like ninety-nine out of a hundred kids would ha’ done.

  “Hot lead, huh?” Roper Dixon rumbles. “Take ’er in the guts then, Bill.”

  His lead-chucker vomits fire and a bullet cuts whiskers offen my left cheek. I’m needin’ a shave bad, but not that kind. My smoker makes talk, too. Its forty-five slug catches Roper in the shoulder, knockin’ him backwards and down, and like a panther, Mason, freed of Roper’s weight, bounds to his feet.

  Bassett is draggin’ out his Colt, but Mason catches hold of that little cur, and whippin’ him round his head like he’d whirl a rope, he lets him fly. Bassett’s hurled ’bout twenty feet, fetch in’ up against a rock. Then Mason pivots and jumps on Roper Dixon, who yells.

  “’Nuff! I’m shot.”

  I run over to Bassett and grab him. He ain’t knocked out, just woozy. But he’s lost his smoker and his appetite for fight. Here comes old Raw Beef to help me and Mason. The scrap’s over and the dogies ain’t stampeded. I know Jinglin’ Jimmy is all as has kept ’em from quittin’ the earth.

  “If you can handle this pair of lizards, I’ll go out on herd,” Mason hollers at me.

  “Go, and you too, Raw Beef. Hustle!” I sings out.

  The cook and the outlaw fork the hosses what Bassett and Roper had been ridin’ and lope away. I drag Bassett up close to Roper and consider what to do. Heck of a mess! Cash Martin dead. Dixon wounded bad. I can’t depend on Bassett no more. All this ’cause I got in my outfit an outlaw with a reward on his head. Can me and Raw Beef and Jimmy and Mason get that herd through? We got to.

  “Bassett,” I sez, “you’re a damned snake in the grass. Raised plenty hell, didn’t you?”

  “I ain’t forgettin’ ’twas you who shot Roper,” Bassett snarls. “Him and Martin was both my pards. Damned if I don’t hate yuh, Bill Swift, as much as I do Lame Larson. I’ll—”

  “I’ll tell you what you’ll do, Bassett,” I snap. “You’ll either take Roper Dixon to Far Peak to a doctor, or else you’ll stay with him and nurse him.”

  With that I tie Bassett, build up the fire, and bandage Roper Dixon’s shoulder. The bullet busted his collar bone and tore plum’ through. Pretty bad. Some outfit I’ve got on this trip through Cayuse Brakes! However, I figger Bassett’ll sure take care of Roper. So I’ll leave them two behind; leave ’em a couple of ponies, grub and a bed—but no gun.

  The only thing Mason says to me is: “Sorry I had to shoot Martin. Heard ’em comin’, you see. Jumped outa bed, saw two of ’em with their smokers out, shot one, and Roper grabbed me from behind.”

  At daybreak the cattle string out, Mason takin’ the point, Raw Beef Oliver the swing, with Jinglin’ Jimmy followin’. I’ll bring up the drags and the horses. The dogies is stringin’ out, the leaders outa sight, and I’m still at camp packin’ the last pack nag when Sheriff Dutton rides up.

  Hailstones in hell! Ain’t I troubles enough without that rooster poppin’ up at such a time! Course he sees Bassett, who ain’t hurt none, and Roper Dixon, who’s in bad shape. Also Martin’s body what I have ordered Bassett to bury later.

  “I heard shots las’ night,” sez the hefty sheriff, scratchin’ his meaty nose. “Seems to ha’ been trouble here. Also it may int’rest yuh to know, Bill Swift, that I picked up the tracks of Lame Larson’s hoss. He joined your outfit again.”

  “Sheriff,” squeals Bassett, “Larson never left this outfit. He was with it all the time. He still is.”

  “So-ho!” Dutton’s bushy eyebrows go up. “And what’s happened here now, Bassett?”

  “Lame Larson, or Mason as we call him, killed that man yonder, Cash Martin, and Swift shot Roper Dixon.”

  “Bill, yuh’re under arrest,” rumbles Sheriff Dutton, whippin’ out his smoker. But I’m expectin’ somethin’ of the kind, and my ol’ hogleg’s in my fist, pointin’ at Dutton’s nose, as his lead-chucker clears leather.

  “Drop it!” I yelps.

  “D’yuh mean yuh’re resistin’ an—” the astounded jigger begins.

  “Drop it! Keep back, Bassett, you snake, or I’ll put out one of them slinky eyes of your’n!” Dutton’s smoker slides to the ground. “Now then, Sheriff,” I proceeds, “I’m tellin’ you that Bill Swift don’t let nobody keep him from deliverin’ the cattle he has got to deliver. Either you’ll give me your word to keep your nose outa my business until Cap Dillingham gets this herd, or—”

  “I’ll promise yuh nothin’,” blusters the sheriff. “If you make me a prisoner you’ll sure suffer for it. Why, by grab, man, what you’ve done—”

  “Doggone you, you’ll ride with me,” sez I, and I relieve the John Law of his carbine and tie him to his horse, tyin’ up the bridle reins on, said horse so I can drive it along with the cavvy.

  Cal Bassett watches the sheriff and me ride away. I’d give a heap to know what that cuss intends doin’. If there’s any manhood ’bout him a-tall he won’t desert Roper Dixon. How I wish Roper hadn’t forced me to shoot him, wish he’d turned out to be a hand I could tie to like ol’ Raw Beef and Jinglin’ Jimmy.

  An hour later I’m pokin’ along behind the drag end o’ the herd when Jinglin’ Jimmy drops back to speak to me. The kid’s big blue eyes sure open wide as he sees the fumin’ sheriff tied to his hoss, but he says nothin’ ’bout that.

  “Dogies goin’ all jake, Jimmy?” I inquires.

  “Yep, we’re makin’ it fine, considerin’ how short-handed we are. That Mason is some cowhand. Never seen a rannie what knows how to point a herd quite so good as he does.”

  “A cowhand, yeah, but I’ll tell the world he’s caused me plenty grief.… What’s on your mind, Jimmy?”

  He knees his hoss ’longside mine.

  “Bill, las’ night, when I was guardin’ the cavvy an’ you an’ Mason was on nightherd with the steers, we had a visitor.”

  “Huh?”

  “A geezer on hossback. I dunno where he came from. He gave a low, funny whistle as he rid toward the dogies, an’ Mason answered that whistle. Then I seen Mason an’ this stranger talkin’ together.”

  “Kid, yuh didn’t hear what they said?” “Nope. I was too far away, an’ I dassent try to get clos
er.”

  “’Nother outlaw, most likely,” I grunts. “Feller ’vaporated hisself into the night, I s’pose?”

  “Yes. D’yuh think, boss, as Mason is goin’ to turn this herd over to rustlers, like Cal Bassett said he’d do?”

  “I dunno what to think, Jimmy. But what thoughts I’m thinkin’ is damned uneasy ones, if yuh savvy?”

  “I savvy,” says the kid. “But what we goin’ to do?”

  “Nothin’ till the showdown comes. Kid, if we didn’t have Mason pilotin’ the herd through this twisted country we’d be plum’ lost in an hour. Yeah, we’d jamb our cattle up into a blind canyon first rattle outa the box, a canyon we’d have to back-track out of. Mason avoids all them traps. I’m jus’ hopin’ he’s shootin’ square. If he ain’t.…” I throws out my hands expressive, to show how helpless we’d be.

  “I’ll back your hand the limit,” sez Jimmy, and again rides forward to the swing of the snakelike windin’ herd. Somethin’ comes up in my throat as I gaze after the kid. He’ll sure do to take along.

  Then, as though we ain’t troubles enough, up comes a terrific hail storm.

  The dogies won’t face the chunks of peltin’ ice. They bunches up on a hilltop ’bout the size of a dime and in a gully ’bout the width of a toothpick, while me an’ Mason, Raw Beef an’ Jimmy tries to keep the idjut critters from stampedin’. Poundin’ hail. Lightnin’, glarin’ and vivid. Rumblin’ thunder. In spite of our slickers we’re all soaked to the hide. So is our beds and everything on our pack horses.

  The storm passes as sudden as it had come, leavin’ the ground all white with hail stones. Mason whips a little bunch o’ dogies outa the main herd, forces ’em to travel an’ lead the rest. We go on and on and on. ’Bout three in the afternoon, on top of a high ridge half a mile to our right, I catch sight of six horsemen.

  Gosh! I has an all-gone, sinkin’ feelin’ in the pit of my empty belly. I has more’n a hunch them six hombres ain’t watchin’ us for their health. Dang this cussed Brakes country anyhow! Jack Owens orter ha’ knowed better than to try and put cattle through it. So had Cap Dillingham.