Gunsmoke Justice Read online

  GUNSMOKE

  JUSTICE

  by

  LOUIS TRIMBLE

  a division of F+W Media, Inc.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Also Available

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE RAILROAD Brad Jordan had been following angled southwest at Spokane Falls. He left it there and headed northwest into the desert of central Washington Territory. In three days he came to the place where the Sawhorse River quit the timbered hills for the sand and sagebrush. He stopped his horses at the fork in the wagon road. One branch went due north, through Knothole Gap into the Sawhorse Valley, while the other wound on across the desert into the coulee country.

  He hoped that this time he would reach the end of the road. So many times in the past years it had seemed so, but always there had been something to turn him aside, to lure him on into the next valley or over the next range of mountains. He hesitated now, fearing another disappointment. But in his gray eyes was the stubborn perseverance of a man who refused to be denied, and he reined the palomino and his pack horse north and headed into the gap.

  As he climbed the trail, the rocky bed of the Sawhorse dropped farther and farther below on his left. Looking down now and then he could see the stony bed with only a trickle of water running down the middle. It was surprising in view of the heavily treed watershed of the mountains to the east and north; more so since he had heard that this country was well-watered at all seasons of the year. But in this early summer season the river appeared ready to dry up. It might mean nothing, or it could mean a lot. But the thought that nature might have gone wrong gave him a feeling of disquiet Too many things had gone wrong for Brad Jordan. He wondered if the end of this ride would be the same as all the others. The hot, dusty trail, the search for land where a man might settle and create a solid, sure life for himself, the emptiness that came with the bitter realization that men were the same everywhere and that the coming of settlers meant restrictions that galled a free man’s soul.

  Brad’s hands clenched on the reins, pushing their edges into the tight flesh of his fingers. It had been over a year now since the last time he had tried to settle down. And almost that long since the desire to find something better over the next range had drawn him on again. Always following such a period, there was the time of disappointment, of working for another stake, of taking up another search.

  Across the Bitterroot Mountains in Montana he had heard of the Sawhorse Valley. A few words casually dropped by a man beside him at a saloon bar had brought questions from Brad. The answers, as always, seemed to be those he sought. A new country, fine grass, moisture, a land where a man could put down roots and grow, creating while he lived.

  Brad had waited to hear no more; nothing was changed. The old pattern repeated itself once more. The news of a new place, the long ride, the hope surging up in him until he had to curb his mounting impatience.

  He rolled a cigarette now, letting the horses take a leisurely pace. He was a tall man, well-built, but with the bleak look of a rootless drifter. He knew that it was coming fast to him, the pointless life of a man without his own land, no matter how he fought against it. Up to now only the saving humor that came when he was caught in a tight fix had helped him. Many more times of finding his hopes smashed and the humor would be gone, too. He wondered what men did when they reached the end of desire and there was nothing but another trail stretching ahead.

  • • •

  At the summit of the gap a brawling stream no thicker than his arm tumbled out of a crack in the rocks above to spill into a natural basin. Beside this basin a long, low log building had been set to catch travelers tired after the steep uphill pull going both ways.

  Brad put his horses at the tie rail along with a half dozen others and a team and buckboard. One bay gelding, he noticed, was drooping with weariness and good for little besides fishbait. The horse had been well cared for, but from the look of it, its owner must have faced hopeless odds in keeping it alive any time these past two years.

  Leaving his horses to cool before watering them, Brad walked out of the hot sun into the coolness of the log building. It was a typical freight stop, holding a barroom to his left and a small place to eat on the right. He could smell the stale cooking of too many meals fried in rancid grease and the stale sweat of too many riders working the long days away from home camp.

  At the saloon door he stooped, taking in the scene in front of him with the quiet look of one who had walked into many situations of the same sort. Five men, cowhands by their clothes, had a sixth ringed in the center of the small floor. They were cutting into the monotony of the long day by hoorawing the other. For a moment Brad could not understand this, as the single man was a good head taller than any of the others and half again as wide. His hat lay on the floor near his feet encased in heavy work shoes, and his yellow hair was plastered to his skull with sweat.

  He showed no fear even though — as Brad saw now — he wore no gun, while the five men ringing him did. His face was round and open and on it there was still a piece of a smile, as though he was not quite sure of the joke. Hands like great red hams hung down at his sides, the palms open, and his shoulders were rigid and straight in the discipline of a military man. His clothing was nondescript, none of it of a kind usually seen in cattle country.

  So far the men had not seen Brad. And the leader, a squat, barrel-shaped cowhand, waved his gun. Amusement flickered over his whiskered face. “Sing us some Swede, you!” He laughed aloud. “Do us a Swede dance.”

  Brad had seen it too many times, and each time the disgust rose in him. Sometimes it was a Chinaman, sometimes a Mexican who had drifted across the border, occasionally an Irishman too weary from laying rails to fight. This time they had got a Swede, which would be a special kind of fun since it was more of a rare thing.

  The big man swiveled his head, looking from one to another of his tormenters. Slowly the last of his smile went away as he realized there was no joke to this at all. He spoke in slow, careful English, making each word distinct.

  “What you do this for? What I do to you, hey?”

  “Sing us some Swede!” the bulky cowhand said again. He thumbed back the hammer of his gun and sent a shot through the big man’s hat near his feet.

  Brad put his hand over the bone handle of his .44. This was not his fight, but then many another he had mixed in had not been his, either. The man on the short end of the odds appealed to him. He had never stopped to figure deeper into his reasons.

  As the sound of the shot faded into the acrid smell of gunsmoke, footsteps hurried from the rear of the building and Brad whirled to see a girl burst out of a door near him. He had a glimpse of red hair, dark as his own, piled under a ridiculous riding hat, a long riding skirt below a man’s flannel shirt, and a lightly freckled face that was pretty even when flaming with anger.

  “You stand there!” she said scathingly.

  B
rad said, out of his surprise, “No, ma’am,” and took a step into the room.

  The men inside looked up now, and the one with the gun out of his holster scowled. “This place ain’t open for business,” he said. “Ride on, you.”

  “It’s open for my business,” Brad said quietly. He took a quick sideways step, getting in behind a lanky cowboy before the man could move out of the way. With this momentary protection, he drew his own gun. “Now,” he observed, “it’s sort of even.”

  The lean man in front of him moved his arm and Brad got him by the wrist, throwing the arm up against the man’s back until he held still. The one with the gun stood very still; he was held back now unless he wanted to shoot through his own partner to get at Brad. No one else moved.

  “Just toss your guns on the other side of the bar,” Brad said.

  “Damned if I will!” the barrel-shaped man answered.

  Brad gave the arm he held a twist upward. The lanky cowhand howled and reached his left arm around to his gun. When he had it drawn, he threw it awkwardly. It hit the bar top and clattered to the far side out of sight. Brad pushed a little more, without gentleness.

  “Get about it, Newt,” the man groaned. “He’s busting me.”

  The big man in the center looked around with a puzzled expression. “Back out, mister,” Brad ordered, “and get their guns.”

  Newt shifted as the big man made a move. From the doorway the girl said, “Hold it, there!”

  Brad threw her a quick look, enough to see that she held a rifle casually in her arms. But there was nothing casual about the look on her face. Newt seemed to sense it, too, for his gun went behind the bar to join the other. He stood sullenly, the hatred on his face a livid thing.

  The other guns followed as the big man got behind the rest. Then Brad let loose of the lanky cowhand and holstered his own gun. A glint of sardonic humor touched his gray eyes. He unbuckled his gun belt and handed it to the girl in the doorway.

  “I like things even,” he said. He looked at the big man. “They weren’t fooling, friend. You make something of it now, or they’ll run you ragged from here on.”

  The big fellow seemed to have difficulty in catching the words. But finally he nodded. “Fight? Yah!”

  “Yah,” Brad agreed, and the pleasure of battle touched the high planes of his face and lingered at the corners of his mouth. “I’d say it was about even if the lady won’t interfere. How about you, Newt?”

  The barrel-shaped man wiped his hands on his jeans. “This ain’t your game.”

  “I chose to make it so,” Brad answered shortly. “All right, friend, let ’em see what the weather’s like outside.”

  The big man said, “So,” in agreement and reached out one huge hand. The five men bunched, not yet ready to call it off. Brad laughed softly and waded in. Five to two, but the big one was worth a dozen.

  Brad saw his hands take two men by the shoulders and bring their heads together with a cracking sound that rang through the room. The lanky cowhand threw a fist and Brad side-stepped it, landing a blow that brought blood spurting from the man’s nose. Brad laughed again and drove his left into the man’s middle, sending him hurtling into Newt. Angrily, Newt threw the man back and jumped forward. Brad caught him with a shoulder, driving him against the bar and holding him there with a hip.

  He said, “I don’t like your kind of fun.” And chopped both hands at Newt’s face. He chopped again, and when a glaze came into Newt’s eyes he stepped back. Newt made a wobbly forward move, and Brad straightened him with both hands, cutting viciously with all the pent-up hatred he felt for the kind of thing Newt had been doing. Newt turned and folded over the bar, hung there an instant, and then slid soggily to the floor.

  Brad jumped around, but there was no need. The big blond man had two by the shirt collars and was dragging them from the room. He went out past the girl, sweating no more than he had been before, and there was a thud as the men landed on the dirt outside. He came back and helped Brad with the others. A broad smile crossed his round, sunburned face.

  “Good fight.”

  Brad nodded, and went to the girl for his gun belt. She handed it to him without a word. “You own this place?” he asked as he buckled on the belt.

  “No. Tim Teehan does.”

  “And where might Tim Teehan be right now?”

  “Waiting it out,” she said. There was no scorn in her voice for Tim Teehan. “Those were Double Q men.”

  “It means nothing to me,” Brad said. “Tell Teehan we’d like a beer to wash the taste of this out.”

  Tim Teehan appeared then, coming to the bar from someplace in back. He was a small, wizened Irishman, and there was no love for himself written on his face. “On the house,” he said.

  Brad glanced outside. The lanky cowboy had staggered up and was pouring water from the basin onto the others. Laughing, Brad went to the bar for his beer. The big man joined him, smiling widely now.

  Brad looked at the girl who still stood in the doorway. “Is Double Q so bad?”

  “You’re going into the valley?” she countered. She was a tall girl, standing straight with the rifle butt down at rest now. She showed little pleasure in what Brad had done.

  “I intend to,” he told her.

  “Then stay in town,” she said flatly. “Double Q won’t bother you there.”

  “I don’t figure on Double Q bothering me anywhere,” Brad said, and tipped up his beer. Beside him the big man drained his glass with a great sigh of satisfaction.

  The girl was still watching Brad. “You enjoyed that fight,” she said.

  He studied her, noticing for the first time that her eyes were the same gray color as his own, and that there was a strength in her face he seldom saw in a woman. But when he spoke he was puzzled. “You wanted it,” he pointed. He nodded in answer to her statement. “A fight sometimes takes the edge off a man.” He felt better; too long on the trail had sharpened him too fine. A little honing always made him feel better. It was that way with most men, he knew. He saw nothing strange in it.

  “You cut Newt Craddon up deliberately,” she accused.

  “I don’t like his games,” Brad answered. The point of this was beyond his interest. He had joined the fight in passing, now he was done with it. He pushed out his glass for another beer. The important thing still lay ahead and he wanted to get to it.

  Tim Teehan started the beer across the bar toward Brad when his eyes focused on the doorway. “Look out!” he cried, and dropped behind the counter.

  Brad swung and saw Newt in the doorway, a rifle coming up level in his hands. Brad took three steps from the bar to the girl, shouldering her to one side as the gun blasted. He caught her as she lost balance and swung away, reaching for his own gun.

  The bullet went into the bar where Brad had been standing, and the rifle cracked again as he made a snap shot. Newt disappeared, leaving smoke and the ringing echo from his gun. Brad saw where his bullet had chipped wood from the doorcasing and he ran that way.

  The men outside were on their horses and spread. Two rifles fired, driving Brad back to cover, and then the thud of hoofs beat the air and the riders were gone.

  Brad came back, holstering his gun and looking toward the girl. She stood white-faced, her lips tight. “They’ll wait for you on the road now.”

  “I’ll need my other beer, then,” Brad said, and moved into the saloon.

  The big man was standing with his back to the bar, staring down a little stupidly at his own left hand. Blood ran from his fingertips to the floor, and a red stain was spreading across his dust-plastered shirt high on the shoulder.

  He looked at Brad in wonderment. “Shot,” he said, and his voice was full of pained surprise.

  CHAPTER TWO

  HIS NAME, Brad discovered, was Olaf Hegstrom. The pain from the rifle bullet that had gone through his shoulder caused the sweat to pour down his face, but he made no sound at all.

  With the girl’s help Brad made a crude bandage out
of the available supplies at the Knothole Gap rest stop, and on her advice he decided to take to the hills, rather than follow the wagon road down into Sawhorse Valley.

  At first he hadn’t believed her, but a short trip to a point of rock where he could look down on the road showed him that she was right. Newt had split his Double Q crew into two groups, and they had the road blocked just below the summit and out of sight in both directions. Brad returned tight-lipped to the building.

  “I’m going in,” he told her.

  She measured him with her cool gray eyes. “You’re the kind who would,” she said. “Even if you weren’t heading that way.”

  “You don’t like me, do you?”

  “I don’t like brutality,” she replied.

  “Sometimes there’s only one way to do things,” Brad said. His humor came, twisting his lips sardonically. “My way.” When she made no answer, he went on, “How about this Olaf Hegstrom, you said his name was?”

  “Yes.” She looked toward where Olaf was seated, bandaged now, and staring down, still with the stunned look on his face. “No one knows much about him,” she said. “Except that he came nearly a month ago and disappeared into the north end of the valley. Someone said he was building a homestead shack up there. He was in town twice for supplies that I remember.

  “Then today,” she continued, “I was coming up here and saw him riding ahead. We came up together and he told me he was on his way out to file a homestead. Before we got here I could see the Double Q riders behind us. They came in. And then you did.”

  Brad rolled a cigarette thoughtfully and glanced at Olaf. “Where is the county seat from here?”