Tripp walked along the street, studying the other horses at the hitch rails. None were B-Bar brands. Two men . . . and Bell was reported to have but twelve.
Shorty Jones and Bert Garry had been away from the ranch for fifteen days. Shorty, blond and pink-cheeked, almost as wide as he was tall, blinked against the light in the saloon. Men who rode with him said that Shorty was as tough as a winter on the Black Rock Desert. Bert Garry was nineteen, a lanky youngster, but game.
Shorty took the bottle and poured a drink. He tossed it off, then stood, still holding the bottle while the fiery liquor burned through him. He glanced around at the few men in the saloon.
All were unfamiliar faces. It was early for the usual night crowd, and none of the B-Bar boys were around.
“Jacks,” Garry said, low-voiced, “timber beasts. I wonder what’s up?”
Shorty filled his glass. “Only timber around here is on Deep Creek, and . . .” His voice trailed off. He thought fast, then dropped a hand on Bert’s wrist. “Lay off the whiskey. We’re in trouble!”
“What?” Garry looked around, his eyes still red-rimmed from heat and dust. His eyes followed Shorty’s warning glance.
Two men had stepped to the bar on each side of the two cowhands. Two more had moved up closer along the bar. All were big, all looked tough.
“Watch it!” Shorty repeated.
Bert Garry was young but he had been over the trail. What was coming he could guess, but he did not know why.
Jones did not lift his eyes from his glass. He spoke just loud enough for Garry to hear. “The only timber is on Deep Creek. The boss wouldn’t let no man cut logs up there. We’d better get out of here.”
“We’ll finish our drinks,” Bert said stubbornly.
The lumberjack next to Bert bumped hard against him. Before Garry could turn to speak, Jones caught his arm. He whispered quickly, and Bert Garry caught the idea. Together, muscles poised, they waited. The lumberjacks on either side gathered themselves for a hard lunge at the two cowboys and the one called Frenchy dropped his right shoulder preparatory to driving into Jones. Instantly, Shorty caught Bert’s arm and they both stepped back.
It was too late for Duval to catch himself and the sudden disappearance of the cowhand shot his weight into the empty space, where he met Pete Simmons, lunging from the other side. Their bodies smashed together and Simmons’ feet left the floor and he sat down hard. Bert Garry laughed.
Simmons came off the floor with a lunge. “Laughin’ at me, cowhand?”
“I reckon. You looked almighty funny, fallin’ like that. I always heard a timber beast was fast on his feet.”
“I’m fast enough on mine.” Simmons stepped closer. “I can tear down your meathouse, cowboy.”
Several other lumberjacks had moved in, forming a tight ring around the two. Shorty Jones dropped his hand to his gun, but a lumberjack nailed his wrist with a huge hand.
Shorty’s only idea had been to back them off so they could walk out unmolested, but this he could never have explained. He jerked his wrist free and swung hard. And in the same instant three men swung on him. The battle was short, desperate, futile. Outnumbered four to one, the two B-Bar men were beaten brutally, then thrown into the street. They hit hard and rolled over. Bert Garry came up, choking on blood and dust, almost in tears. With a lunge he started for the door. “Bert!” Shorty yelled. “Wait!”
Garry went through the door with a lunge and the first man he saw was Pious Pete Simmons. He swung from the hip and the blow caught the surprised lumberjack in the mouth and knocked him sprawling. Bert Garry had lost all reason. Set upon by total strangers, for what reason he had no idea, he had been beaten unfairly by a crowd of men. Now he thought of nothing but getting a little of his own back and he went into the fray with a rush.
As Simmons went down another jack sprang at Bert but, battered as he was, Garry was set and he knocked the man rolling under a table. Then he grabbed chair and waded into the crowd.
There could be but one end to such a battle, and Simmons, beside himself with fury, came off the floor and sprang on Garry’s back. Out in the street Shorty Jones staggered to his feet. One arm hung useless and his eyes were closed to mere slits, but he started for the door.
He burst through the door just in time to hear an agonized scream and to see Simmons jump high in the air and come down, calks and all, on Bert Garry’s face!
The cowhand screamed and tried to get up. Brutally, Simmons kicked him. Wat Williams grabbed Simmons. “Pete! Stop it! You’ll kill the kid!”
Shorty dropped beside Garry. The boy’s face was a mask of blood and he breathed with great gasps.
The lumberjacks had vanished, and Shorty Jones looked up to see Pious Pete Simmons leaving through the front door. “I’ll see you!” The puncher was hoarse with anger. “I’ll see you again!”
Wat Williams dropped on his knees beside the boy. “We’d better get this kid to the doctor. Simmons jumped on his belly, too.”
“I’ll get Doc McClean!” the bartender said, ducking out the door into the street.
Jones put his folded jacket under Garry’s head, then looked up at Williams.
“What’s this all about?”
“You don’t know?” Williams sat back on his heels. “You ride for the B-Bar?”
“Sure. But we just rode in from Santa Fe. We never heard of no trouble.”
Williams explained, then added, “This eye I got. Your boss gave it to me.”
“Fightin’s one thing. This here’s another.” Shorty Jones looked up at Williams and his eyes were utterly cold. “Tell Simmons to start packin’ a gun. I’m goin’ to kill him.”
Wat Williams was silent. For the first time he was beginning to see what they had encountered. They had been in fights before, but they fought to win and did win. Simmons was not of his stripe, but Simmons had been the front man for a lot of their trouble. Now Williams could see they had stepped into a world not of lumber camps, but a world of guns and gunfighters.
When Bert Garry was safely bedded down in Doc McClean’s home, Shorty crawled stiffly into the saddle and started for the B-Bar. His jaw was swelling and he was discovering bruises he had not known he had, but he knew he must get through to the ranch. Clay Bell would want to know about this.
Simmons was pulling off his boots when Wat Williams found him. He was showing the bloody calks to the other lumberjacks. “We taught ’em!” he chuckled. “I sure greased the skids under that cow nurse!”
“We should have got the other one,” Duval said.
Williams liked neither man. Some of it was in his tone when he spoke. “That’s right. Now you’ve played hell.”
They looked up at him. “The other one told me to tell you to start packin’ a gun.”
Simmons blinked. Slowly he put a boot down on the floor. “What would I want with a gun?”
“He said he would kill you on sight.”
Simmons touched his tongue to his lips. A brutal thug, used to barroom brawls and sluggings, guns were something out of his consideration. A beating in an alley . . . a lead pipe or a cant-hook, but a gun? He drew off his other boot amid absolute silence.
Within a matter of hours the story of the fight in the Tinker House was told in every bunkhouse and prospect hole within fifty miles. Many men knew or had heard of Jud Devitt, and knew the thugs that made up his crew, men chosen as much for their ability to maim and destroy as for their ability in the timber.
Noble Wheeler heard the story with satisfaction. In this fight, as a not too innocent bystander, he stood to win no matter who lost. Knowing the way of war, he realized both sides would lose in the end. And that, he decided as he rubbed fat hands together, was exactly as he wanted it.
Morning dawned bright and clear, giving promise of a hot day. Lumberjacks this morning did not walk singly but in tight bunches of four or five men. That they held the town was obvious. There were thirty of them and all carried clubs.
The townspeople walked warily, doing their buying and hurrying off the street. Everyone waited to see what Clay Bell would do. From his big chair on the veranda of the Tinker House, Sam Tinker studied the groups of lumberjacks thoughtfully, and without pleasure.
It was going to be hot. Sam Tinker scowled and scratched the back of his neck. This was his town. He started it, he built it. And now he did not like what was happening. He found himself looking more and more toward Emigrant Gap, and waiting.