One Notch to Death Read online

  And there was trouble here. Right in his lap.

  He had shot Aintree in El Paso and he had fired the shot before the fool could clear his gun from leather. The redhead was fast, but he was a slouch compared with the natural master who faced him.

  Calmly and without haste Mart had shot him through his gun-arm. At the time, it had seemed a waste to kill a man for a piece of foolishness.

  He lived to regret his soft-heartedness. Six months later, Stu Aintree had back-shot him. From the cover of a dark alley in Tucson, the man had fired two shots point-blank. Maybe it was nerves that had marred his aim, but he didn’t make the kill he had expected. Mart was badly hurt, but he was alive enough to draw and get off two shots. Aintree had fled, this time showing a little more sense than courage.

  Now he was here in Spring Creek and he no doubt carried his injured pride with him. Mart considered this so much schoolboy stuff, but it was a childishness that could get him killed. This time Aintree had Pat Shaw along. And two others.

  Mart turned and surveyed the room, measuring, locating. He wondered coldly if he was going to get out of there alive.

  Aintree spotted him. The shock of the sight of him registered for a brief second on the fair-skinned, wind-reddened face. Alarm flitted momentarily in the eyes. Then he flicked his eyes away from Mart and headed for Pat Shaw.

  Are the others in this room? Mart wondered. If they aren’t, can I finish it before they arrive? Clem had said they weren’t present. He could be lying. But Mart thought not.

  Chapter Two

  Aintree reached Shaw. For a moment, he blocked Mart’s view of the rifleman.

  Mart’s mind was working smoothly, coldly. There was one man behind him—the barman. Mart knew him. He’d keep out of it. If trouble came, Grebb would use his weight to get the trouble outside, aided by Charlie Stott. Mart decided that this piece of trouble was going to take place right here on the spot in Grebb’s place. He didn’t want a shot in the back as he went through the doorway.

  Aintree moved slightly. Mart could see Shaw’s face. The man was talking, calmly and with authority. Mart knew what he was saying. This wasn’t the way he had planned it. Therefore this wasn’t the time. He wanted Mart heavily outnumbered in a crossfire.

  And that, Mart decided, was what he was not going to get.

  He was going to get this situation rammed right down his throat and it would choke him.

  Aintree nodded once. He moved away from Shaw, walking past Mart diagonally across the room without looking at him, reaching the far corner opposite to Shaw and on the other side of the door to Shaw. For the first time, Mart started to worry. But he didn’t let the fact make him sweat. His mind was still ice-cold.

  ‘Clem,’ he said, ‘if you want to stay alive, move away from me.’ He owed that much to the little man.

  Clem gave him a startled look and scuttled to the center of the floor, floundered around for a moment and made for the door. He went through the doorway and the door slammed behind him.

  Grebb turned toward Mart. The man could smell trouble. Charlie Stott saw the alarm in his master and came to his side, stood there woodenly, looking over the room.

  Mart slipped the thong from the hammer of his gun.

  ‘You want me, Shaw?’ Mart asked, raising his voice above the hubbub.

  The rifleman couldn’t hide his surprise.

  The place fell silent at once.

  Mart’s eyes were on Shaw as the more deadly of the two men, but his mind was on Aintree in his corner. Nobody there was yet aware of the connection between Shaw and Mart. There were men between them. This wasn’t going to be easy. That was Mart’s one dubious advantage. The situation was so much in the favor of Shaw and Aintree that they were taken off balance by his challenge.

  Grebb said: ‘Now, now, Mart ‘

  ‘You keep right out of this, Andy,’ Mart said quietly.

  Grebb hesitated. Even Stott stayed still. Both suspected that there could be more than they could handle here. Mart Storm wasn’t a man to tangle with.

  Shaw said: ‘What makes you think I want you? I don’t even know who you are?’

  ‘You know who I am,’ Mart said. ‘Aintree, hidin’ over yonder in the corner with his hand on his gun, told you.’

  Men moved. There was now a wide lane between Mart and the rifleman.

  Grebb said: ‘Take it outside, boys.’ There was worry in his voice.

  ‘Nothin’s goin’ to get broken,’ Mart assured him. Stott looked as if he wanted to take some action. He also seemed to be rooted to the spot.

  Aintree shouted—

  ‘Now.’

  Mart moved.

  The onlookers had never seen a man move faster with less effort in their lives. There was a sudden burst of utter confusion. The men between Aintree and Mart were suddenly aware of their danger and tried to scramble clear.

  Mart knew that Aintree was drawing. He also knew that Shaw was most likely the more dangerous of the two.

  He dropped to one knee, crouching forward. As he did so, his gun came smoothly into his hand. Shaw was in the act of flicking down the light carbine so that his left hand caught the barrel. By the time he had done that, Mart had cocked and fired.

  Almost in the same instant, Aintree’s gun sounded. The bullet thudded into the timber wall at the rear of the bar. The barman yelled and dropped from sight.

  Mart pivoted on one knee, dove forward full length on the floor, tilted his gun up, cocked and fired a second time. There was still a man between himself and Aintree. He no more than glimpsed the man’s gun-hand.

  Even as he fired, he thought: By God, We’ve wounded the bastard again. He wouldn’t make the mistake a second time. Aintree was as good as dead.

  The man was shrieking: ‘Don’t shoot, don’t shoot.’ His gun hit the floor. ‘I don’t have a gun.’

  Mart rose to his feet, turned and backed to the wall beside the external door. His gaze passed quickly over the men in front of him. The shock of the sudden violence showed in their eyes.

  He said to Aintree: ‘Get over by the bar.’

  Clutching his bloody right arm, Aintree slowly crossed the room and backed up against the makeshift bar. His face was ashen and the terror showed in his eyes.

  Mart glanced quickly at Shaw.

  The man lay on his face, arms outspread. There was a pool of blood around his head. Mart could see that the bullet had exited through the rear of the skull.

  He looked at Aintree. His bullet had taken the man in the right arm no more than inches above where he had previously planted the lead.

  Kill him, a voice said in his head.

  Aintree knew his thoughts. He watched Mart’s face avidly.

  Mart said: ‘I’m goin’ out of here. Anybody follows me an’ they’re as dead as Shaw there.’

  The three Broken Spur riders were looking pretty sick.

  Mart moved sideways, felt for the latch of the door and opened it. He stepped back into the night, slammed the door shut and quickly turned, ready for a shot. The other men might be out here waiting for him.

  Then he ran for Darky.

  Chapter Three

  Now as he rode the gelding through the darkness, he asked himself: Why?

  Was it just a plain case of bounty hunting? Was there some close connection between Aintree and Shaw that compelled the rifleman to throw in with Aintree to avenge the redhead’s humiliation in El Paso? Then what of the other two men? Where did they fit into this?

  He was in Broken Spur country now with Darky trotting steadily through the lush valley grass. Vaguely he wondered if that outfit had anything to do with this. It was a remote possibility. The Storm Lazy S outfit had fought Ed Brack’s Broken Spur crew to a standstill the year before. Brack had apparently accepted defeat after the Storms had beaten even his imported gunhands. But Brack was a proud, ambitious and powerful man. The fact that he considered that the Storms were raising cows on land that he thought to be his winter graze might still be rankling. He ran co
ws on ranges in three or four states. He ruled a cattle empire and it might still irk him that he had been bested by so insignificant an outfit as the Storms.

  It was a possibility. Certainly the Broken Spur hands at Grebb’s had taken no part in the fracas. But that didn’t necessarily signify a thing. He wondered who the other two men were—the two who had ridden in with Shaw and Aintree.

  He angled across the southern end of the Broken Spur valley, reached the saddle in the hills and slowed his pace. At the highest point, he stopped Darky and let him blow, looking at the moonlit valley of the Three Creeks below him. There was deep regret in him. The year spent with Will and the family had been good. The best year of his life. He had helped to build something, had been able to form decent human relationships. Telling stories to little Melissa, joshing Kate, having fun with the boys, seeing Will and Martha together. It had all helped to make him human again. It had brought him back from the gulf into which he had slipped over the years.

  Now the sickness of the killing came over him, as it always did. No matter how much a man needed killing, or even asked to be killed, the shaking came, like a powerful physical symptom of remorse.

  It was a time he dreaded.

  He was a mature man, he told himself. He had killed before. He was into his thirties, but at that moment, he needed the company of one man—his brother, Will. For years, during the years of the war, during the years when he was one jump ahead of the law, he and Will had seen nothing of each other. But he had gone home to the old Storm place in Texas before Will started the trail-drive to Kansas, two years back, and the family had accepted him without question.

  ‘Old memories returned—Will always the elder brother, always the quiet and steady one. Hell on wheels when roused, but like a rock when needed. Will who had comforted him as a child, Will who had taught him how to shoot, to rope, to ride.

  And now, tonight, he had betrayed him.

  He stayed where he was for five minutes, thinking, undecided, suddenly not wanting to face his brother. Then he got a grip on himself, tightened Darky’s girths and mounted, heading on down into the valley.

  Fifteen minutes later, he hit the valley trail and let the gelding increase its pace. The horse knew that it was headed for home, it knew the trail. There would be no stumbling in the dim light here.

  Sometime later, Mart saw the moon glistening on the waters of the first creek, saw where the dark lines of the house stood out against it. No lights showed. Everybody would be abed.

  He dismounted in the yard, thinking. Maybe he should saddle a fresh horse, pick up some supplies and light out. Least said, soonest mended.

  A match flared.

  Well, I’ll be damned, he thought. Will must have known. That was him sitting there smoking his pipe. He let Darky’s line drop and walked toward the house.

  Will was there in his rocker, puffing.

  Mart squatted. He couldn’t see Will’s face, but he knew every leathern line of it. The elder man was nondescript, just another work-hardened cattleman pushing into his forties. Nothing spectacular about him. Hair graying, heavy mustache hiding his upper lip, eyes steady and peaceful. A thinking man.

  Mart squatted, his powerful shoulders squaring themselves as he hugged his knees. They were as different as two men could be, these two brothers. Where Will was quiet, Mart was volatile; where Will smiled, Mart laughed; when Will was moved to wariness and careful consideration, Mart was reckless. There was a strong physical difference, too. Mart was a tall man, inclined to leanness; his hair bleached fair where the sun had touched it; his eyes were the clearest gray, direct and challenging His manner was firm, his movements quick. Where his brother showed anger only in moments of acute stress or danger, at such moments Mart grew cold and controlled.

  Will was good with people, they trusted him, they accepted his authority. Mart, they liked. Women and children were soft clay in his hands. Both men shared a great love of horses and both men hated to accept defeat. They were brothers completely in that they were generous to a fault. They understood each other, and maybe because they were so different, they were tolerant of each other.

  ‘Will,’ Mart said, ‘I killed a man tonight.’

  There was silence between them. Mart could feel his brother recoil mentally from the shock of the statement. After a long pause, Will spoke—

  ‘How’d it happen?’

  Mart told his tale, briefly and to the point. When he finished, his brother offered no criticism. To the contrary, he said: ‘You didn’t have any choice. You’re lucky to be alive. It’s goin’ to be this way for some time yet awhile, boy. You have a rep. You have to live it down. Where do you stand now?’

  Mart said: ‘I’ve been thinkin’ about that. There’s Aintree wounded.’

  ‘You could of killed him.’

  Mart knew what his brother meant. Mart had changed. Not too long ago he would have cut the man down in cold blood. That was the unwritten law. A man drew on you and it was your right. Twice, Mart had let the man live. How long could a damned soft fool stay alive?

  ‘He’ll come after me again,’ Mart said. ‘He’s the kind. There’s his two partners. The two I didn’t see. I don’t know who they are. They could be the kind who could owe me for Aintree.’

  ‘So you have a choice,’ Will offered. ‘You can stand or run. You stand and there’s more killings. Maybe you could be the one who gets killed.’

  ‘There’s the law, too.’

  ‘You can rule that out,’ Will said. ‘It was an even draw. You said so. Men saw it. You’d best make your mind up right here an’ now. With some good horseflesh you can get a few hours ahead of ’em.’

  Mart said: ‘I made up my mind to that already. I just didn’t want you thinkin’ I’d run out on you.’

  Will swore.

  Then he said: ‘Catch up a couple of horses. I’ll pack some supplies.’ He rose to his feet. ‘This’ll blow over, boy. You’ll be back here an’ I’ll be workin’ the ass off you come fall.’ He turned and went into the house.

  Mart stood up, led Darky to the corral and off-saddled. He decided to take the gelding along with him. It was his favorite horse. He found a rope, climbed the fence into the corral and roped a chunky zebra dun, a steady horse with plenty of bottom named Old Stripes. He would want horses with staying power on this run. He saddled and bridled the dun, then made a hackamore with a rope on Darky. He let down the bars on the gate and let Old Stripes out.

  He heard the sound of footsteps and turned. Two figures came toward him. He knew that his sister-in-law, Martha, accompanied his brother.

  Martha never fussed. She had come through the war, gone up the trail with the cattle to Kansas and then trailed west to Colorado. She was past fussing. A physically strong woman, nearly as tall as her husband, still handsome and still with a trim waist.

  She put a work-worn hand on Mart’s arm and said: ‘Look out for yourself, Martin, an’ come back soon.’

  He bent his head and kissed her cheek. They were not a demonstrative family, but he wanted to show her what he owed her and Will.

  Will cleared his throat.

  ‘If’n you go west,’ he said, ‘go see Joe. Let him know. You want to contact us later, tell Joe. He’ll get word to us. I could ride out to the Devil’s Eye. You can watch half the state up there.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Mart said. ‘Tell the girls goodbye for me, Martha.’ He untied his horses and stepped into the saddle.

  Will said, handing up the gunnysack full of supplies, ‘That’ll keep you a-goin’ for a while. I’m putting extra shells for the belt-gun and rifle in your wallet.’ He loaded the wallet on the cantle of the saddle and slapped the dun thoughtfully on the rump. ‘Let’s hear from you. I’ll find out all I can and leave word with Joe. Look out for yourself.’

  Mart sat the dun looking down at them, two dim shapes in the moonlight. He wanted to say something, but he couldn’t find the words.

  He said: ‘See you, folks,’ and set the horses in motion.


  When he reached the first creek, he turned and lifted a hand in farewell. They waved back and the sun stepped down into the smooth-running waters of the creek.

  He felt like hell. The black dog of depression fell on his shoulders. All this because some damned young fool in the past had wanted to brace the famous gun down on the Mexican Border. As he rode for the hills, he turned the events of the evening over in his mind again. It was the presence of Shaw at Grebb’s place that puzzled him and until he knew the relationship between the dead rifleman and Aintree, he would never understand it.

  Chapter Four

  Within twenty minutes he was over the first ridge and into the hills, headed for Joe’s place.

  Joe Widbee held a peculiar position in the Storm family. Nobody ever thought of him as anything else but family, though he was no blood kin to any of them. And part of the bond that held him to the Storms was slavery, for Joe had been Old Man Storm’s slave. As had his father before him. The same age as Will, Joe had grown to manhood beside him.

  There was never a man born less slave like than the Negro. Maybe Old Man Storm had seen this. He never said. He was a man with strong notions of his own. His neighbors had considered him cranky and odd. Nothing he did could surprise them. When at the age of fifty he decided that it was not becoming for one man to own another, the neighbors sighed and agreed that that was just like Old Man Storm. He freed Joe.

  And Joe lit out. Not a word to anybody. He just upped and walked away into the brasada country. He took with him no more than the clothes he stood in, a rope and a knife. He went to taste freedom.

  Nobody knew for certain what he did during the three years of his absence. Whatever he did, he survived. Will never had any doubt that he would. Joe was a born survivor. In spite of his upbringing as a slave, he was basically a self-reliant, independent man. He also possessed many skills of the kind that a man needed to stay ahead of death in the brush country. He could ride and rope with the best and he wasn’t afraid of anything on two or four legs. His passion, like the rest of the Storms, was horses and, it was said, during those three years he hunted the wild ones. Later, he became famed as the most skilful mustanger in that part of Texas. It was said that during those three years he lived as wild as the animals he hunted, he grew so that he could think like a mustang and had such a way with him that he could walk among a caballada without it taking alarm. Be that as it may, he caught his first wild one on foot. And when he had tamed this one as only he could do, he rode after his second.