CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

A dim trail led the unwary down a gully that tapered to a narrow valley at the end of which lay the hell hole that was Trail’s End. It was a notorious hangout for outlaws and thieves; a ramshackle town that was not on any map, it protected its own, and the few honest riders that ventured were likely to never being heard from again.

Jess rode into Trail’s End slouched in the saddle and bone weary. He had set a relentless pace since he left the Sherman ranch, the buckskin eating up the miles with his long, easy stride.

Jess had been to Trail’s End before, once with the law on his trail; he knew the place well. No one asked any questions, and as long as you could pay your way, they left you alone.

Tolliver ran the town with an iron fist, and although he was wanted in five states for anything from murder to bank robbery, there was no warrant for him in Colorado. Jess figured he’d be able to pick up some local gossip. If Matt Tyrell’s ramrod was running stolen beef, chances were someone here had heard about it. It was worth a try.

He straightened up a bit as he nudged the horse towards the hitching rail outside a saloon aptly named “Last Chance.” He swung down and shook the dust off his battered Stetson. An oldtimer, rocking back in a chair eyed him thoughtfully as he bit of a piece of chewing tobacco. The rider looked familiar, and old Marty never forgot a face.

Jess ran a weary hand through his rumpled hair, and rammed his hat back in place. He paid scant attention to the old man on the porch as he pushed through the batwing doors. The light from the saloon’s interior caught his face, and Marty brought his chair crashing down.

“Jess Harper!” he muttered. “Well, I’ll be durned. Cal’ll wanta hear ‘bout this.”

He scurried across the street to the hotel, his bandy legs giving his a curious, rolling gait.

Jess squinted against the bright lights of the saloon, and made his way to the bar. The place was crowded and noisy, roughlooking customers rubbing elbows with a few shopworn girls in grimy costumes. One of them sidled up to him, but he brushed past her.

“What’ll it be, mister?” the barkeep asked.

“Whiskey,” Jess said shortly, dropping his hat on the counter. He leaned his arms on the bar, one foot hooked on the brass rail. “And don’t water it down too much, Rafferty, I been here before, remember?”

The burly man behind the bar gazed at him sharply, his eyes narrowing as his memory hunted for a name to go with the lean, unshaven face and the cold steel in those blue eyes.

“Jess Harper,” he said slowly as it finally dawned on him. “Thought you was doin’ time in the pen.”

“Don’t look that way, do it?” Jess said sardonically.

“Reckon not,” Clem Rafferty shrugged, and poured a liberal shot of whiskey.

Jess tossed down the drink, the raw liquor burning his throat and warming his belly. Rafferty made a move to refill his glass, and then his eyes widened slightly at the man coming up behind Jess.

“Next one’s on me, Jess,” a deep voice said.

Jess tensed, the glass halfway to his lips. He recognized the voice instantly, and his hand closed on his gun as he slowly turned around. He stared at the stocky, hawk nosed man in dandified range garb, and wondered why he wasn’t surprised.

“Calvin Tolliver.”

“Heard you were in town,” Cal Tolliver grinned, and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Been a long time, Jess.”

“Word travels fast,” Jess said, shrugging off his hand. “I only rode in ten minutes ago.”

“Well, you know me,” Tolliver drawled. “I got an ear to the ground. Say, you look like you’ve been travellin’ hard. Wyoming Territory last I recall.”

“So?”

Tolliver signaled the bartender, and Rafferty produced a bottle from underneath the counter. The outlaw leader and his gang spent a lot of their loot in his saloon, and he knew damned well they wouldn’t stand for any of his watered down brew.

“Join me?” Tolliver asked casually, and nodded towards a vacant table in the far corner of the saloon. Jess shrugged and followed him. He had known Cal Tolliver for some years. The man was greedy, smart and utterly ruthless. He had long tried to recruit Jess into his gang, but while they maintained an uneasy truce, Jess had sidestepped the man’s efforts to get him to join them in his shady dealings. He knew, given only slightly different circumstances, he could very well have ended up like Tolliver, constantly on the run, his face plastered on wanted posters over the half the country. ‘Even then he’d come close enough to it’, Jess thought wryly as he settled himself into a chair.

“Thought you had a good thing goin’ in Laramie,” Tolliver ventured as he filled their glasses. “Heard tell you were workin’ on a relay station for the Overland Stage Line. What happened?”

“Sheriff didn’t like the body count,” Jess said with a slightly bitter smile.

“You on the run?” the outlaw leader asked sharply.

Jess shook his head.

“Not yet I ain’t,” he murmured.

He eyed Tolliver over the amber liquid in his glass. The outlaw wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and in an old, nervous habit Jess remembered from way back, he drummed his fingers incessantly on the table. Tolliver knew Jess Harper skated on the thin edge of the law, and at times outside it. Harper was known as a lone wolf, a maverick with a fast gun, unpredictable and beholden to no man. He had somehow managed to avoid landing behind bars until he crossed paths with the Tyrell family.

“Lou Coulter was a good man,” Tolliver said suddenly, reaching for the bottle again. “Heard tell old man Tyrell paid him to take you out. Guess he picked the wrong man for the job?”

Jess remained silent. The casual remark opened up wounds that were still too fresh, and his hand tightened around his glass. He took a deep breath and with an effort pushed the memories away. He put the glass down and rolled a cigarette. He scraped a match against his bootheel, and leaned back in his chair, the cigarette dangling from his lips. Jess knew Tolliver well enough to tell when he was fishing for something, and so he waited, patiently.

“Look, Jess, I figure you were workin’ your own angle when you took that job with the stageline. Plenty of easy pickin’s there for an inside man. I reckon the Tyrell’s fouled things up for you but good. Are you in the market for another set-up?”

Jess’ eyes narrowed as his lips clamped down on his smoke. He had come here hoping to pick up something on Tyrell’s ramrod and his rustling operation; he wanted no part of Tolliver’s schemes.

“I work alone, Cal,” he said curtly. “You know that.”

He dropped the butt on the floor, and ground it under his heel.

“Yeah, yeah, I do,” Tolliver nodded. “Hear me out. It involves the Tyrells, what’s left of them anyways. You kinda cut down on the family members when you were in Laramie, Jess.”

He chuckled derisively, and Jess felt an icy finger trail down his spine. He thought of young Matt Tyrell, his face pale and anguished as he stood over his father’s dead body, and was again assailed by doubts about what he was doing.

Tyrell had made it very plain that he never wanted to see him again; maybe it would be better if he just put the whole thing behind him. Hell! He compressed his lips into a grim line. If Cal Tolliver was involved in the rustling operation it would complicate matters. A greedy ranch foreman he could deal with, a notorious outlaw with a gang backing him stacked up to a very different card game.

“I’m listenin’,” he heard himself say, and knew then that his decision had been made.

His voice betrayed nothing. He slouched in his chair, seemingly relaxed, but Tolliver had seen him in action too many times to be fooled. He knew the man was wound tight, ready to spring. Those chill, blue eyes seemed to see right through him. Discomfited, Tolliver tugged at his bandana, adjusting it. He met the gunfighter’s level gaze, and read the sardonic amusement in it. Damn the man!

“Matt Tyrell’s not cut from the same cloth as his father was,” Tolliver said. “He’s soft, weak, more interested in booklearnin’ than in runnin’ the spread. His foreman, Rafe Peters, came to me with a proposition. He’d worked for the old man nigh on five years, and wasn’t happy with the money. When Tyrell took off chasin’ after you he saw a chance to run off some beef. Half a dozen of the hands went along with it, but they needed a way of selling the beef without arousing undue suspicion. The sheriff in Bowdrie’s no fool, even if he was in Hurd Tyrell’s pocket.”

He paused to grab a swallow of his drink. Jess refused a refill, and simply listened in stony silence. He was too tired to drink any more; his head was starting to feel heavy, and he needed to stay alert.

“We’ve got some three hundred head of prime Herefords stashed in a box canyon on the north section of the Rocking T,” Cal Tolliver continued. “It don’t take much figurin’ to change the Rocking T brand to the Circle T, and I’ve got a buyer in Sweetwater who’ll pay top dollar.”

Jess knew he was right, just continue the rocking rung and make a complete circle around the “T.” Easy and brilliant. Tolliver hadn’t lost his touch.

“What about Matt Tyrell?” he asked grimly.

“Haven’t you heard?” Tolliver grinned. “He’s too busy drinkin’ himself to death to worry about the ranch. Peters’s been doin’ the job alone with the few hands that stayed with him. Everyone else’s drawn his pay and cleared out. Nothin’ much can go wrong, Jess.”

“You seem to have covered all the angles, Cal,” Jess said. “What do you need me for?”

“Except you and me the rest of my outfit’s just a rough and tumble bunch,” Tolliver replied. “They’re good in a fight and they can drive cows, but there ain’t a gun hand among them. I need someone like you, Jess. I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye on things, but this could be a big score. Tyrell’s known to have kept cash and gold stashed in his safe at the main house. When we’re ready to make our move, we’ll clean it out, along with the beef.”

“You’re not leavin’ the kid much, are you?” Jess said quietly.

“Did you?” Tolliver retorted.

Jess flinched, and his face darkened as he pushed away from the table. Tolliver held his breath, wondering if he’d gone too far. Jess brought his temper under control with an effort. After all, the outlaw was right, what had he left young Matt Tyrell except bodies to be buried. If he went along with Tolliver he would at least have an inside track to his plans.

“Well, Jess?”

“I’ll sleep on it,” Jess said and walked out of the saloon.

ooo0ooo

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

He had been on Tyrell land for the last five hours. He found the box canyon where Tolliver held the stolen cattle; a narrow pass led the way in, and it opened up to a huge natural corral. Easily guarded, as the one man he’d spotted attested to, but not a good place to get caught in. There was only one way out as far as he could determine, and that was the trail leading into the canyon.

Jess swung south and headed for the Rocking T ranch. Two hours hard riding found him at the top of a ridge, cutting a solitary figure against the late afternoon sky. The large, rambling main house and a number of outlying buildings sprawled in an oasis of green trees and shrubbery. A small stream meandered across the property; it was a lush scene, but even from this distance Jess could make out the signs of neglect. The corral gate swung on broken hinges, and once immaculate flowerbeds were trampled and covered with weeds. As he drew closer he saw that the main house was in dire need of a coat of paint, and he shook his head, wondering how things could have gone so wrong for Matt Tyrell. A spread like this easily employed fifteen-twenty hands, with extra help taken on at roundup time.

He saw no one about as he walked his horse towards the main house, but a door slammed suddenly behind him, and he spun in the saddle. A brawny, broad-shouldered man, thick in the neck and chest, came out of what Jess judged to be the bunk house. He stopped short when he saw Jess, and shielded his eyes against the sun.

“Somethin’ I kin do for you, Mister?” he asked sharply.

Jess drew rein, and rested his hands on the pommel. The man’s face was leathered by the sun, his eyes watchful and unfriendly.

“Oh, I reckon so,” Jess drawled. “Lookin’ for the boss.”

“I’m Rafe Peters, I ramrod this outfit, the big man said belligerently. “You got any questions you ask…”

His voice trailed off and he took a couple of steps closer.

“Say, ain’t’ I seen you someplace before?”

“Could be,” Jess said evenly, and pushed his Stetson back off his forehead. He held himself tense and ready for trouble.

Peters’ face blanched, and his eyes bulged.

“Harper!” he exploded. “You got yer nerve comin’ back here… for two bits I’d…”

His right hand moved, and for a big man he was fast, Jess had to give him that, but by the time Peters’ weapon had cleared leather he found himself staring down the business end of Jess’ .45. The bone-handled revolver gleamed as the hammer came back. The ramrod’s face turned a pasty white, and his gun wavered unsteadily. He stared at the lean, grimfaced figure; the dark blue eyes drilled into him.

“Just ease it back in the holster, Peters,” Jess said. “I ain’t huntin’ trouble, but if you aim to start somethin’ you better be damned sure you can finish it.”

Rafe Peters discovered he had been holding his breath, and exhaled gingerly as he put his gun away.

“Now then, where can I find Matt Tyrell?” Jess asked mildly, his gun still trained on the ranch foreman.

“The kid?” Peters snorted disdainfully. “Hell, everybody knows that. At the Horseshoe Saloon, more’n likely under a table. He ain’t been sober since he buried his Pa, and his brother Johnny…but I reckon you’d know more about that’n I would, eh?”

He laughed appreciatively, some of his courage seeping back.

“Yeah, you would,” he grunted. “You put ‘em six feet under. No mean feat, that, I’ll wager. You also got rid of two hands who’ve given me nothin’ but grief since they signed on here.”

“Anderson and Vasquez,” Jess said.

“Gol’durn greaser, never could stomach ‘em.” Peters hooked his thumbs in his belt. “What d’you want with the kid, anyways? He’s got no likin’ fer you, that’s for certain.”

“No, I don’t’ suppose he has,” Jess drawled. “I come from Trail’s End, Peters. Cal Tolliver sends his regards.”

The foreman stiffened, and his greedy little eyes narrowed to slits.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he snapped.

“Sure you do, friend. I’m taking over the show here. Tolliver’s orders. If you don’t like it, pack it in right here and clear out.”

“Now wait a minnit, I’m bossin’ this outfit,” Peters snarled. “Tolliver’s got no call to bring in outsiders.”

“Tell that to Cal,” Jess said, his voice dangerously quiet. “You can stay and take your orders from me, or cut loose. Make up your mind, daylight’s awastin’.”

Jess’ gun still pointed at the ramrod’s midriff, and Peters licked his lips nervously. He knew he was no match for Harper with a gun, and if Tolliver was backing him, there would be no place for him to run. Furious at having his authority challenged, he nevertheless recognized a no-win situation.

“All right, all right,” he grunted. “No need to git all riled up. Jest wish Tolliver’d let me know’s all. Whyn’t you step down, and set a spell. We can go over the plans.”

“I’m makin’ a few changes,” Jess said shortly. “But first I got to see the kid. Then I’ll be back to talk to you and the others. You tell ‘em I’m around. That way they won’t have any nasty surprises.”

He holstered his gun, and backed the buckskin out of the yard. He didn’t trust the ranch foreman for a minute; the man was livid at having been demoted, and Jess knew he would make trouble the first chance he got. Once out of the gate, he wheeled the big horse around and headed in the direction of Bowdrie. Tolliver said they planned to raid the ranch on the 20^th that made it a week from today. It didn’t leave him much time to work on Matt Tyrell, if the kid would even talk to him!

ooo0ooo

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Part Twelve