Justice at Red River Read online

  Justice at Red River

  John Glasby

  © John Glasby 1961

  John Glasby has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work

  First published in 1961 by John Spencer

  Originally published as The Bounty Rider by Chuck Adams

  This edition published in 2016 by Pioneering Press

  Table of Contents

  One: Red River Justice

  Two: Lynch Law Talbot

  Three: The Avenging Gun

  Four: Stampede

  Five: Gunsight

  Six: Night of the Long Shadows

  One: Red River Justice

  At the full height of day the noon heat was brazen and oppressive. The sun glared from a blue-white sky and there was no shade around the tiny waterhole. The bushes were small, stunted growth, burned a deep brown and the rising walls of sand and rock formed a natural basin which caught and held the heat, refracting it from all sides, sending it pouring down in invisible, shimmering waves upon the two men lying in a shallow trench hollowed out by the vagaries of ages of wind and scouring sand.

  For the better part of half an hour, the men had lain there, rifles thrust out in front of them, occasionally propping themselves up on their elbows, peering through the thin grass in an attempt to pick out movement on the hillocks all about them. In the sun’s direct light, the results of the savage gun battle were pitilessly apparent. There was a deep red stain on Shorty Enwell’s shirt where the blood still oozed from the bullet wound in his right shoulder in spite of the padding which his companion, Clem Foster had pressed against the hole. Groaning, Enwell flopped an arm across his eyes in an effort to ward off the blistering glare of the sun, then rolled over on to his side and presently, with a sluggishness that suggested the need of supreme concentration and effort, he pushed himself up on to his hands and knees, shaking his head slowly from side to side.

  ‘Got to get out of here,’ he mumbled. He tried to stand up, but couldn’t make it and even as he fell forward on to his face, Foster reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him down.

  ‘They’re still out there,’ he hissed sharply. ‘Keep your head down unless you want it blown off.’

  ‘We can’t stay here,’ said the other hopelessly. ‘Mebbe they have gone. Why’d they want to finish us off after they’d driven the steers away? They got no quarrel with us. We’re just doin’ a job here. We’ve no quarrel with Foran.’

  ‘Everybody who isn’t with him is against him,’ muttered Foster grimly. ‘He wants all of this territory for himself and he means to get it no matter how he does it.’ He shifted his position on the scorching sand, striving to ease his body into a more comfortable posture. The sweat, streaming into his eyes, was blinding him and there was a long bullet burn along his left arm which stung where the irritating grains of sand had worked their way into the torn flesh.

  ‘If I don’t get to a doctor soon I won’t be makin’ it anywhere,’ was the hoarsely mumbled response. Enwell opened his shirt carefully and examined the bleeding wound, gritting his teeth as each movement, however slight, sent a stab of agony lancing through his ravaged body.

  ‘Not a chance.’ Foster scrutinised the rising mounds around the waterhole, eyes screwed up into mere slits against the biting sunglare. ‘Mebbe once it gets dark, we can risk it. But if we tried now, they’d pick us off the minute we showed our heads over those crests.’

  ‘I don’t think I can last out until dark.’ The other laid his head weakly on his outstretched arm and closed his eyes.

  Foster turned his head sharply, stared down at his companion. For a moment he felt sure the other was unconscious, possibly dead. Then he noticed the slow rise and fall of his chest, let the breath go in a soft exhalation. Damn it all, he thought angrily, fiercely; what had they done to deserve this? They had worked for Carson now for almost a year since they had ridden in together from Texas, looking for work, any kind of work so long as it was with cattle. That was really all they knew and when they had come upon this place, it seemed they had really dropped on their feet. The ranchers were all extending their holdings, building up their herds, driving them once every year to the railhead at Forbes Crossing, fifty miles to the east. There had been no sign of trouble then, no indication that a range war might flare up without warning.

  Then Witney Foran had arrived in town. A hard-bitten and uncompassionate man, he had wasted no time buying land and building up a cattle empire which had grown rapidly over the months. As time had gone by, he had brought in men to enforce his will on the neighbouring ranchers. Within months, the peaceful valley had approached the brink of a full scale range war. Stolen cows found their way into the Double Circle herd which now numbered several thousand head. At least half a dozen men had been bushwhacked in the last few months and now it looked as though there would soon be two more.

  The flat crack of a Winchester echoed across the inhospitable country and Foster dropped flat, pressing his body tightly against the scorching sand. He had already noticed the strike of the slug to one side of him and the angry whine of the shrieking ricochet filled his ears. Narrowing his eyes, he studied the line of crests above him, knowing it would be useless to try to move into any better cover. There was just bare ground all about him.

  As the afternoon wore on, the heat became fiercer and Foster noticed that his partner was now only partly conscious. He had lost plenty of blood; the wide stain on his shirt front testified to that and now and again, he would twist and jerk spasmodically on the ground, moaning through tightly-clenched teeth, his eyes rolling whitely in his head. Above the waterhole, the buzzards wheeled against the glaring sun, not daring to descend any further while there was still any sign of life below.

  Weakly, Foster wiped the streaming sweat from his eyes and face, ran a parched tongue around equally dry, cracked lips. They had long since drunk the last of their water and there are limits beyond which human endurance cannot be pushed. The shimmering sand, the dizzying waves of heat were blinding him and when he saw the slight movement on the crest, he had only sufficient strength to lift the Colt and squeeze off a single shot.

  One of the advancing men clutched at his stomach and reeled back, dropping in his tracks. Another, leaping down into the hollow, pointed the barrel of his Winchester at Foster’s temple, finger tightening on the trigger. Another moment and he would have shot the man through the head, but at that instant, a harsh shout drew him back.

  ‘Hold it, Frisco. I want these two alive.’ Blackie Carron, Witney Foran’s foreman, came forward, stood with legs braced, staring down at the two wounded men. ‘Bring their horses here and put them on. We’re takin’ them back into Benton.’

  ‘This one jest shot Clem,’ grunted Frisco. ‘You jest figurin’ on tossin’ ‘em into jail?’

  Carron grinned wolfishly. ‘You got it all wrong, Frisco. These hombres have got to be a warning to anybody else who wants to try and stop Foran. The boss wants ‘em taken in so we can string ‘em up from a convenient tree.’

  Frisco’s eyes narrowed a shade. ‘You reckon that the sheriff is goin’ to allow that?’

  One of the nearby men laughed harshly. ‘You hear that! You ain’t scared of Talbot, are you, Frisco?’

  The other swung sharply at the scorn in the man’s words. For a split second his right hand hovered close to the butt of the Colt in his belt, Fingers clawed. He was a whiplash of a man, a born killer, fast with a gun, scarred by trouble and always looking for trouble. Restless and narrow of mind governed by passion, he killed for the sheer savage delight of it.

  ‘All right,’ snapped Carron. He stepped forward between the two men. ‘I want no shootin’ between ourselves. Now get t
heir horses. We don’t have all day to spend in this hell-hole. We’ve waited long enough in this goddamn blistering sun for my likin’.’

  Slowly, Frisco relaxed, but there was still the look of murder in his black eyes, narrowed down to mere pinpoints. He glanced aside at the big foreman and a thought passed between them. Then he squared himself. ‘I ain’t scared of anybody,’ he said ominously to the man who had spoken. ‘You’d do well to remember that.’

  ‘Hell, I didn’t mean anythin’,’ grunted the other sullenly. He turned on his heel and ploughed his way through the shifting sand to the top of the nearby hillock. Ten minutes later, they had all mounted up and the column moved out, finding it difficult to control the two horses carrying the badly-wounded men. The animals could scent the nearness of death and they did not like it.

  *

  Shortly before five o’clock, the Double Circle riders tied their mounts in front of the jail, climbed down and started in a bunch for the front steps, walking slowly with the stiffness of all day in the hot sun and the saddle. On the boardwalk, Frisco stopped, glanced round at Carron. ‘Reckon me and the boys have earned ourselves a drink, Blackie,’ he said softly. ‘I figure you can handle the rest of this.’ There was a touch of insolence in his tone which the big foreman noticed instantly.

  For a moment, a surge of anger seared through Carron’s body, then he caught himself. He had recognized Frisco’s type the day the other had arrived at the Double Circle ranch asking for a job; a man who preferred more work with the gun than with cattle. A born killer, bucking for his job, ingratiating himself with Foran. Both men were of the same breed, tough and utterly ruthless. He guessed that Frisco was deliberately trying to rile him, hoping to make him go for his gun.

  Forcing his anger down, he gave a terse nod. ‘I reckon you’re right, Frisco. Wait for me in the saloon. This won’t take long. Once I get these two hombres locked up, I’ll be over and we can plan the next move.’

  He stood and watched the crew as they made their way across the dusty street, then stepped inside the sheriff’s office, closing the door loudly behind him.

  Ed Talbot swung his legs off the top of the desk and sat bolt upright in his chair, staring quizzically at the other, then knocked the length of grey ash off the end of his cigar and motioned Carron to a seat. ‘Something on your mind, Mackie?’

  ‘Plenty.’

  The other raised his brows a little. ‘What is it this time? More trouble with Carson’s men?’ There was a dispirited note in his deep voice. Suddenly, he began to feel all of his fifty-seven years. Being sheriff of Benton now was far different to the life it had been only a couple of years ago, he reflected. Then there had been very little trouble. A couple of drunks to lock up on a Friday night after they had been celebrating a little too heartily, sobering them up in the jail before letting them go on the Monday with a warning. He felt dead beat. This job was getting beyond his capabilities now, but there was nobody else who would take it on.

  ‘I’ve got a couple of rustlers out there, Sheriff,’ said Carron thinly. ‘We caught them on Double Circle land with some of our beef. I want ‘em both locked up until Mister Foran gets here. Guess he has his own ways of dealin’ with these rattlers.’

  ‘All right. Bring ‘em in.’ Talbot got heavily to his feet and reached for the bunch of keys behind his desk.

  Carron stood up, moved to the door, then looked back. ‘I forgot to mention one thing, Sheriff. We had to put some lead into both of ‘em. Guess you’ll have to help me carry ‘em in.’

  Talbot looked on the other with a kind of impersonal interest, then followed him out into the street. Sighting the two men lying over their saddles, he stopped indecisively in his tracks, watching Carron with his baulked glance. ‘But these men are dead,’ he said sharply.

  ‘Nearly — but not quite.’ The foreman’s tone was callous. ‘They soon will be once Foran gets into town.’

  Something in his tone checked the angry retort that leapt to Talbot’s lips. In his violent years in the west, more than twenty years before, he had seen many iron-willed men such as Carron and he could sense the danger that lay deep in the other. Grumbling a little under his breath, he helped the other to lift the badly wounded men from the horses and carry them inside.

  ‘You sure you want ‘em locked in the cells?’ he muttered hoarsely. ‘They don’t look to me as if they’ll cause any trouble, not in their condition.’

  ‘Lock ‘em up, I said!’

  For a moment, Talbot glared at the other, then his glance slid away and he sighed inwardly. ‘At least I could get Doc Fortune to take a look at ‘em. That ain’t askin’ much.’

  Carron shrugged disinterestedly. ‘Suit yourself about that, Sheriff. I daresay if he was to bind those wounds up a little, they might know who was hangin’ them — and why. Reckon we’ve got to make an example of these critters if we’re to stop this rustlin’.’

  He waited until the two men had been laid on the low bunks inside one of the cells and the door locked, then left the jail and made his way across to the saloon. Frisco saw him come in and drifted across from the bar. There was the same wolfish grin on his lean features.

  ‘Everythin’ go OK?’ he asked.

  Carron nodded. ‘They’re in one of the cells right now.’ He turned away, motioned to one of the other men. ‘Ride out to the ranch and let the boss know what’s happened. I don’t want word of this to get to Carson before we’re ready.’ He went to the saloon door with the man, paused on the boardwalk, said in a low voice, ‘Tell him what we’ve figured out. I reckon he’ll agree. Might get him here a little quicker.’

  The other nodded, moved over to his horse, climbed up into the saddle and spurred the gelding out of town. Carron watched him go, the white dust settling slowly behind him. Then he stepped back into the saloon, noticing as he did so the portly figure of Doc Fortune hurrying into the jail. Smiling a little to himself, he let the doors swing shut and moved over to the bar.

  *

  It had been a quiet evening in the Fast Gun saloon. Blackie Carron, smoking a thin quirley to pass the time, had remained seated at one of the tables, taking no part in the poker game going on among the rest of the men. Then, a little after nine, the doors of the saloon creaked open to let in Witney Foran.

  The big rancher let his gaze travel around the room for a few moments before he walked across to the table at which his foreman sat and lowered himself into the chair opposite. ‘I got your message,’ he said curtly. ‘You sure Carson knows nothing of this?’

  ‘Don’t see how he could, unless he’s worried about his two boys and sent somebody to see why they haven’t got back yet. Even then he won’t know what really happened.’

  ‘You have any trouble with Talbot?’

  ‘Nothing I couldn’t handle. He didn’t like lockin’ them away, but I reckon he knows better than to argue. Doc Fortune went in a while ago to fix ‘em up a little. I figured they might as well know why they’re bein’ strung up when the time comes.’

  Foran nodded his head slowly, his eyes shadowed in speculative thought, pinched a little to hide all that lay behind them. Taking out a cheroot, he lit it and let out a mouthful of smoke. ‘I’ve had this thing figured out for some little time now, just waiting for things to play into my hands. Guess things couldn’t have been timed better. Everything is perfect. You sure you’ve got everything attended to with no loose ends flapping about? I don’t want a full-scale fight with Carson and the others until I’m good and ready — and that’ll be when the Macey brothers get here. When that happens, we can ride roughshod over everybody in Benton. Right now, I just want to be sure that this is all inside the law’ — he grinned viciously — ‘even if we have to bend the law a little to suit our needs.’

  ‘I don’t see Talbot makin’ any trouble,’ grunted Canon. ‘As for the rest, they’re like sheep. They know better than to step into any trouble that isn’t of their own making.’

  ‘Maybe so.’ Foran drew deeply on the cheroot.
‘Better get Judge Fentry over and a couple of the Council. We’ll make this real nice and legal.’

  Blackie nodded, his dark eyes which seldom gave any hint of the workings of the mind behind them, glinting with a feral sheen. ‘I’ll have ‘em across in ten minutes,’ he promised.

  He returned presently with the three men. Fentry looked uneasy when he spotted Foran, licked his lips nervously as Carron hustled him across to the rancher’s table. His gaze flicked once in the direction of the Double Circle crew still engaged in their game of poker, then he glanced back at Foran.

  ‘May I ask what is so important that you have to drag us across here at this time of night?’ he asked.

  Foran regarded him steadily for a long moment until the other lowered his eyes, then he said: ‘I want you here to see that the trial we’re just about to hold is perfectly legal.’

  ‘Trial?’ Fentry looked surprised. ‘I’ve heard of no impending trial.’

  ‘You wouldn’t. The crime wasn’t committed until today.’ Foran sat back in his chair, perfectly composed. He nodded towards Carron. ‘My foreman here and some of the crew came on a couple of Carson’s men running beef off my range. There was a gunfight and one of my men was killed. The two rustlers were shot, but they’re still alive and locked up in the jail across the street. We’re going to try them on a charge of murder and rustling, right here and now. Once they’ve been found guilty according to the law, we intend to take them both out of jail at dawn and string them up as a warning to any others.’

  Fentry turned his head slowly, looking around the saloon. ‘I don’t see the accused men here.’

  Foran shook his head. ‘Like I said, Judge. They were both wounded in the gunfight. Too badly wounded to be moved, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But you can’t try men in their absence like that. They have to be given a chance to defend themselves,’ protested the other. ‘If you don’t do that, then you’re going to be nothing better than a lynch mob.’