Lonigan (Ss) (1988) Page 5

  When he was gone, Meadows shook his head. “You sure do beat all!” he said. “You get out of fixes better than any man I ever saw! But now you’ve got a chance to get away, and you better do it!”

  “Leave? ” Regan smiled. “And miss all the fun? Don’t worry, I’ll be here tomorrow!

  And while I think of it, you’d best not sell out if you haven’t, nor plan on leaving.

  There’s going to be a change around here!”

  He walked out, leaving Jenny staring after him with puzzled eyes. “Dad, what’s the matter with him? Is he afraid, or is he a fool?”

  Meadows lit his pipe. “I don’t know, Jenny darling,” he said, “but I’ve a feeling he’s neither!”

  It was spitting snow when Dan Regan rode into the ranch yard of the Slash B. He walked his horse across the yard to the rail by the house, dismounted, and tied him. Then he started up the steps.

  “Wait a minute!’ It was Anse Wiley. “You can’t go in there!”

  “Who says I can’t?”

  “I do!”

  “Then it doesn’t mean a thing. Go on back to the bunkhouse out of this snow. I want to see Cash.”

  “Cash?” Wiley’s face was angry. “He’s a sick man. Nobody sees him!”

  “That gag worked too long and too well for you and Bud,’ Regan said. “I know all about you. You’ve been stealing the place blind, both of you. Now the fun is over.

  Get out of town or get thrown in jail!”

  The foreman stared at him, aghast.

  “I’m not talking through my hat,” Regan added. “I have facts and figures. You tell Bud, and you can have twenty-four hours’ start. No more.”

  Deliberately, he turned on his heel and walked in. Bud Billings came out of his chair with a startled exclamation. Dan moved by him toward Cash’s room. “Stop!” Bud demanded.

  “What do you mean breaking in here?”

  Regan looked at him. “Bud Billings, you’re a cheap little thief! Now get out and join Wiley and get going or I’ll throw you out!”

  Bud stared, swallowed, and stepped out of the way. Dan Regan walked by him and threw open the door where old Cash lay propped up on some pillows.

  The fierce old eyes blazed at him. “Who in tarnation are you?”

  “Not one of the thieves you have around you!” Regan flashed back. “While you lie there in that bed, your nephew, Bud, has been stealing you blind and Wiley helping him! Now the rustlers have started in and they are cuttin’ your herds day and night!”

  “What’s that?” Billings roared. “Who the devil are you?”

  “I’m Dan Regan, Pat Regan’s son!” Dan said calmly. “I’ve been working for you as a lion hunter and watching them steal you out of house and home until I got sick and tired of it!

  “You lying there in that bed! You aren’t sick, you old catamount! You just ate too much and laid around too much! After a mans been in the saddle as long as you he’s got to die in the saddle! You figured you were rich and let Bud and Wiley talk you into taking it easy!”

  Coolly then, Regan recited the events of the past few months, the whipping of Wiley, the laughing at the Slash B, the stealing without even attempting cover. “Bud didn’t dare raise hob about it because he was stealin’ himself!” he added.

  Cash stared at him, chewing the ends of his mustache. “What right have you got to be here?” he demanded. “Your Pa and I never did get along!”

  “No, you sure didn’t, you pig-headed old fraud!” Dan told him. “Pat Regan spent a lifetime pulling you out of holes, and he told me to keep an eye on you, and that’s what I’ve done. Now make me your foreman so I can get things going around here!”

  Cash Billings stared at him angrily, and then suddenly, his eyes began to twinkle.

  “Be dehorned if you ain’t the spittin’ image of Pat!” he said. “Only bigger! You’re some bigger! All right! You’re the new foreman! Now go ahead and run the show until I get on my feet!”

  “You,” Dan pointed his finger, “be on your feet in the morning, understand?”

  He turned to go, and Cash stopped him. “Dan? Is that your name? You ever handled cows? What you been doin?” Billings stared at him suspiciously.

  Dan Regan smiled. “Why, I punched cows a while, took three herds up the trail to Dodge and then Ogallala. After that I was a Texas Ranger for about four years.”

  He walked down to the bunkhouse and opened the door. Tom Newton sat disconsolately before the fire. He glanced up.

  “Oh? It’s you? Did you run Wiley off?”

  “Uh-huh. I’m the new foreman. Tom, you straddle your bronc and hightail it for my cabin. Curly Bowne, Jim Webb, and Jones are holed up there. Get them back down here but fast. Tell them I want them at the stage station, and you too, tomorrow not later than three.”

  “What happens then?” Tom asked, staring at this new Regan.

  Dan smiled. “Why, first I’m going to lick the stuffing out of Bill Hefferman. Then I’m going to run Burr Fulton out of the country afoot and without pants! After that,” he added grimly, “you and the rest of the boys are going to come with me. We’re going to comb these brakes like they were never combed, and any man we find who doesn’t start running when we see him will wear a hemp necktie or swallow lead! We’re going to have this country fit to live in again!”

  Bill Hefferman was sore. Moreover, he was boastful. He was a big man and a fighter, and there was no cowardly bone in all his huge body. Victor in many barroom and rangeland brawls, he feared no man and was confident he could whip anyone. Dan Regan he regarded as small potatoes. In fact, the entire Fulton crowd regarded it as a huge lark-if Dan showed up, and the betting was five to one he wouldn’t.

  One bettor was Jenny Meadows.

  The Fulton crowd arrived early. Bottles had been passed around freely. Burr swaggered into the long dining room and dropped at the table to drink coffee and eat doughnuts, always available at the stage station.

  “He’ll be here!” Jenny said. Suddenly, though she could not have said why, she was very sure. “You wait and see!”

  “Him?” Burr was incredulous. “He won’t show up! Aside from Bill, I’ve got my own little score to pay off with him, and if he shows up, I aim to pay off!”

  “He’ll show up!” Jenny said firmly.

  Burr grinned insolently. “Want to bet? I’ll bet you a dollar he doesn’t show!”

  “Are you a piker?” Jenny flashed. “A dollar!” Scorn was thick in her voice. “What do you think I am, a child? I’ll bet you one hundred dollars to five hundred! Those are the odds they are offering that he shows up. I’ll bet you another hundred dollars to five hundred that when he shows up he will whip Bill Hefferman!”

  Fulton stared, then laughed. “Are you crazy?” he demanded. “He hasn’t a chance! If he had nerve enough he couldn’t do it, and he’s yellow as buttercups! Never gave anybody an even break!”

  “I made my offer!” Jenny’s face was pale, her eyes flashing. “Are you a piker? You’ve talked so big about the money you have! Put it up!”

  He laughed, a little uneasily. He was unused to betting with a woman, and while he had no doubt he would win, still …

  “He’s yellow!” Burr persisted. “If he should whip Bill, which he won’t, I’d run him out of the country!”

  Thoroughly angry, Jenny said, “All right, then! If I win I’ll bet all I win on the first two bets that he runs you out of the country!”

  Burr Fulton sprang to his feet, white with anger.

  “Me?” he roared. “Run me out? Why you lit-!” He broke off, staring at her. “All right,” he said, “it’s a bet!”

  “Then let’s put up our money!” Jenny said flatly. “If he runs you out of the country I’ll have a hard time collecting! Here comes Dad and Colmer. We’ll give the money to Dad to hold for us while Colmer is a witness!”

  Burr slowly counted out the money, his face dark with anger and resentment. He felt that he had never been so insulted in his life. Secretly, he fanci
ed himself another Billy the Kid, and this talk of running him out! He snorted.

  As the hour hand straightened up to three o’clock, four riders came down the hill to the stage station and dismounted. Everyone there knew them-Tom Newton, Jim Webb, Curly Bowne, and Jack Jones. All were top hands, tough riders who had fought Indians and rustlers with the Slash B when Cash Billings was on his feet and ramrodding the spread himself. Lew Meadows eyed them thoughtfully, then stole a look at Burr. Fulton’s face was a study in doubt and irritation.

  Bill Hefferman peeled off his shirt and stepped out beyond the hitching rail. “Well, where is he?” he roared.

  “Right here!” The reply was a ringing shout, and all heads turned. Dan Regan stood in the stable door. How he had gotten there or how long he had been there, nobody knew.

  Jenny felt her heart give a great leap. He had come, then! He wasn’t afraid!

  Stripped to the waist, he looked a bigger man, and certainly a more rugged one, and powerfully muscled. He walked out and handed his shirt to Meadows. He wore two guns, tied low.

  He stepped up to the mark Hefferman had drawn with a toe, and grinned at the big man.

  “All right,” he said cheerfully, “you asked for it!”

  Both hands were carried chest high, rubbing the palms together, and as he spoke he smashed a straight left to Bill’s mustache that staggered the big man and started a thin trickle of blood from his broken lips. Hefferman grunted and looped a roundhouse swing that missed. Dan Regan’s left lanced that mustache three times, flashing like a striking snake. Then a right uppercut jerked the big man’s head back, and the crowd roared.

  Hefferman rushed, swinging. Regan parried one swing, ducked another, and caught the third on the chin going away, but went down hard. Bill rushed to get close and Dan rolled over and came to his feet. He stabbed another left to the mouth, took a smashing blow on the chin that rang bells in his head, and then he bored in, ripping wicked, short-arm punches to the body with all the drive of his powerful shoulders.

  Bill pushed him away and swung with everything he had. The punch caught Regan on the chin, and he went down, turned a complete somersault, and lay stretched out on his face in the dust!

  A shout went up from the Fulton men, and they began dancing around, slapping each other on the back. Then Regan got up.

  They stared. Hefferman, astonished beyond reason, rushed. He met that same stiff left hand in the teeth, and it stopped him flat-footed. Before he could get untracked, Regan knocked him down with a right.

  Lunging to his feet, Hefferman charged. The two began slugging like madmen. Bill grabbed Dan by the belt and shirt and heaved him high, but Dan jerked up with his knee and smashed Bill’s nose to crumpled bone and flesh. Hefferman staggered and Regan broke loose. Dropping to his feet he set himself and threw two powerful swings to Bill’s chin.

  Like a lightning-shivered oak, the big man staggered and his knees buckled. Dan Regan walked in, threw a left, and then let go with a right to the belly that drove every bit of wind Hefferman had into one explosive grunt. The big man doubled, and Regan brought a right from his knees that lifted him from his feet and dropped him on his back in the dust!

  He lay perfectly still.

  Dan Regan stepped back quickly, working his fingers. His work-hardened hands felt good. Skinned on the knuckles, but still supple and quick.

  “All right, Fulton!” he said.

  Burr wheeled. The gunman dropped into a half crouch, his eyes suddenly aware. Triumph lit his eyes, and with a sneer, he dropped his hands.

  Then he froze, still clutching the butts. He blinked and swallowed. He was looking into a pair of twin six-guns that had appeared in Dan Regan’s hands as if by magic.

  “It was a trick!” he roared. “A sneaking trick!”

  Dan smiled. “Why, you tinhorn, try it again!”

  He dropped his guns into his holsters and lifted his hands free. Before Burr Fulton could so much as tighten his grip on his own guns, Regan’s had leaped from his holsters.

  “Burr,” Regan said quietly, “I told you you wouldn’t have a chance with me! You’re not a badman, you’re just a wild-haired cowhand who got an idea he was fast! Back up and go to punching cows before you try to draw on the wrong man and get killed!

  You’re no gunslinger! You couldn’t even carry a gunslinger’s saddle!”

  Burr Fulton swallowed. It was hard to take, but he was remembering the speed of those guns, noting the steadiness of them. “Try it again!” he screamed. “And come up shootin! I’d rather be killed than made a fool of!” He was trembling with fury, his face white and strained.

  “Burr,” Dan replied patiently, “you’re strictly small-time, and I’m not a scalp hunter.

  You draw on me and I’ll shoot holes in your ears!”

  Burr Fulton froze. Perhaps nothing else would have done it. Holes in his ears!

  The brand of a coward! Why, he would be ruined! He would …

  He stepped back and straightened up. “All right,” he choked. “You win!”

  “Now,” Regan said. “I’m ramrodding the Slash B from here on! Anyone caught rustling our stock will be strung up right on the ranch and left hanging until he dries up and blows away! You’ve all got just until daylight to leave the country. Tomorrow my boys start combing the brakes, hunting for strangers. I hope we don’t find any!”

  Webb, Newton, Bowne, and Jones suddenly stepped out in a solid rank. All four held double-barreled shotguns which Curly had taken from their horses under cover of the fight.

  “All right, boys! Start moving!” Dan said quietly. They moved.

  Dan Regan walked up on the porch and looked at Jenny.

  “Well, I’m back,’ he said, “and there’s another dance at Rock Springs on Saturday.

  Want to go with your husband?’

  “That’s the only way I’ll ever go to another dance there!” she replied tartly. “Anyway, we can buy furniture with the money.”

  “What money?” he asked suspiciously.

  “The money I won from Burr Fulton, betting on you at five to one!” she said, smiling a little, her eyes very bright.

  **

  Author’s Note THE WESTERN SALOONS

  Whiskey Flat, near where Kernville, California, now stands, began when a wagon broke down and the owner of the wagon and its goods began selling whiskey off the tailgate.

  Parrot City, a now-vanished town not far from Durango, Colorado, began with a man who laid a plank across two barrel tops and began selling whiskey under a tree.

  Saloons began wherever there was a market for whiskey, and that was wherever men congregated. The first saloons were often in tents, hastily thrown up while a building was in the process of construction. They were of all types, from a shed with a bar to a very plush and elaborate structure with gaslights, paintings (often of seminude, reclining ladies), and a stage for entertainment.

  The saloon was not merely a place for drinking, but a clubhouse, information center, and meeting place, a place where deals were made for land, cattle, mining claims, or whatever.

  Most of the saloons had gambling as well, the games run by the house or by someone working with permission from the house and an understanding. Many of the early peace officers were also gamblers, and on the frontier many gamblers were respected men.

  The average western saloon was a place with a few gaming tables, sawdust on the floor, and a long bar. Whiskey was expensive to ship, and although a few bottles of the good stuff were handy for special customers or the owner himself, most of the patrons were served whiskey or beer often concocted on the premises or nearby and made of whatever material was available.

  By the time the railroads were operating in the west and whiskey could be shipped at a reasonable price, many westerners had forgotten what good whiskey tasted like and were convinced that so-called “Indian” whiskey was better.

  Many western saloons also served meals, some even of gourmet quality, but on the whole such food was catch-as-catch-
can, and one ate what was available and was glad to get it.

  Women were rarely on the premises unless the saloon also functioned as a dance hall, in which case women appeared as entertainers, most with quarters upstairs to which they might resort on appeal. Occasionally the dance-hall girl would be only that, limiting her activities to dancing or talking with the customers. Others had special “friends” whom they might entertain on occasion or with whom they kept company, as the saying was.

  As the railroad built west, the Hell-on-Wheels towns kept pace with construction, since workers on the railroad had to have a place to spend their money and these towns provided it. Most of the saloon and gambling houses at the end of the tracks were houses in tents, a few in hastily thrown up shacks. They were wild, woolly, and lawless, each “town” lasting for a few weeks only, then moving westward to be reestablished in a new location. Cheyenne, Wyoming, which practically began in that way, remained a permanent town, a marketing place, and eventually became an important city. Fortunately, in growing up, Cheyenne has managed to retain its western flavor, as befits a town in cattle country.

  *

  HERITAGE OF HATE

  Chapter 1 Bushwhacked Man.

  Con Fargo hunched his buffalo coat about his ears and stared at the blood spot. It must have fallen only a minute or two before, or snow would have covered it. And the rapidly filling tracks beside the blood spot were those of a man.

  Brushing the snow from his saddle he remounted, turning the grulla mustang down the arroyo. The man, whoever he might be, was wounded and afoot, and the worst storm in years was piling the ravines with drifts.

  The direction of the tracks proved the man a stranger. No Black Rock man would head in that direction if badly hurt. In that direction lay thirty miles of desert, and at the end of those miles only the ramshackle ruins of a ghost town.

  Con started the mustang off at a rapid trot, his eyes searching the snow. Suddenly, he glimpsed the wounded man. Yet even as his eyes found the stumbling figure, a shot rang out.

  Fargo hit the trail beside his horse, six-gun in hand. He could see nothing, only the blur of softly falling snow, hissing slightly. There was no sound, no movement.