Dead Man's Blood Read online

  Dead Man’s Blood

  Mason Macrae

  © Mason Macrae 1939

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

  First published in 1939 as Limberleg of the Lazy Y by Collins.

  This edition published in 2017 by Pioneering Press

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER ONE

  A new moon climbed clear of the serrated crests of the Redstone Mountains and washed across the valley with liquid brilliance. Its sudden revealing light touched the high body of Walter Magill as he rode across the rolling land. From force of habit Magill’s hand moved swiftly to his wide-brimmed and alkali-dusted Stetson to pull it lower over his eyes. And then with a sudden crackling laugh, instead of pulling the headpiece down over his forehead he pushed it farther back on his head, and the chuckle of mirth cutting through the almost complete silence of the range, made the big powder roan beneath him cock his ears forward like a pair of semaphores.

  Magill’s gloved hand moved swiftly down to stroke the dust and sweat-caked neck of the pony. “I reckon I haven’t gotten over the jitters yet, Cry-Baby” he remarked for the horse’s benefit. “It takes a little time for a man to get used to freedom and to realise there aren’t any wanted bills out for him.”

  And then when the animal’s gait slowed and the beast’s head turned to cock an inquiring eye back at the rider, Magill chuckled again. “Sure, I know you’re hungry and so am I. But yonder’s the spot we’re headin’ for, with a good rub down and a grain feed for you, which you sure deserve. Maybe a day of rest on good pasture too, Cry-Baby. Me, I’m havin me a thick steak with plenty of friend potatoes and then I’m goin’ to find a bed and sleep from sundown to sundown.”

  To all appearances Walter Magill was just one of the run of the mill cowhands. Brush-scarred bull-hide chaps covered his legs. He wore a sun-faded denim shirt, a rather ornate soft leather wind-breaker, and a bright, now sweat-stained, crimson silk handkerchief about his neck. The butt of a walnut-handled six-gun protruded from the holster at his hip.

  “Get along there now,” he said to the pony, and adding action to the words, he touched the tired animal gently with his rowels. The animal broke instantly into a steady lope, seemingly understanding perfectly each inflection of his master’s voice, if not the exact words.

  Riding leisurely, but with his glance sweeping back and forth across the moonlit terrain, Magill studied this new land that he hoped to make his home. Shards of moonlight touched the snow-capped peaks of the Rattleknob Mountains across the valley, throwing the brakes and the gullies and the deep ravines into reservoirs of black. Down through the centre of this rolling country there was a darker spot, oval in shape, which looked like belly-high grass, and the cowboy wondered about it until he remembered that this was Dry Lake Valley and undoubtedly that long oval was the lake itself.

  Not far ahead of him lights winked from the little cow-town of White Water which was his final destination, and another light, closer and off to his right, came and went as pony and rider rose up and down with the swell of the ground. Seeing this light and anxious to avoid it, Magill neck-reined the roan, changing the animal’s course enough to give the ranch a wide berth, for as yet he knew nothing of this country, and strange riders, especially cowhands who were gunhung and covered with trail dust, might not be welcome.

  Reaching into the breast pocket of his sweaty shirt he pulled the makings from his pocket and swiftly rolled himself a quirley as he rode. But he did not light it yet. A small herd of shorthorn cattle reared up suddenly off to his left and went lumbering over a swell with a calf bawling lustily at their rear.

  Magill waited out of caution until a dip in the rolling terrain took him completely out of sight of the ranch-house lights, then with a flick of his thumb-nail he struck a match into flame and moved it towards the cigarette.

  Almost instantly he heard the flat report of a rifle and the warning whine of a slug sailing over his head. Cursing under his breath he reined in sharply, bringing the pony to an instantaneous halt and throwing his entire weight forward and over the pony’s neck. Man and beast seemed to melt and become a part of the ground. It was a trick he had taught his horse many months previous when travelling strange countries where strange riders were shot at first and asked questions afterward.

  On the ground and safely bunkered behind the reclining body of his pony, Magill waited for some further warning. The ruse worked perfectly, for as he lay there with his gun out and the unlighted quirley still locked in his lips, he heard the swift drum of oncoming hoofs and the moonlight suddenly skylined four riders who bulged over a rise and came to a halt with their glances probing the darkness of the hollow where he was hidden. Magill could see the glint of gun barrels in their hands.

  Then a man’s voice lifted and carried to the cowboy. “I hope you didn’t hit him, Tex.”

  Magill grinned and felt a little bit reassured and on sudden impulse he lifted his voice to make it carry to the four riders, saying, “I can take all four of you to Kingdom Come before you can say Jack Robinson, but I’m not anxious to. Suppose you all just lift your hands shoulder high to show that you’re not playin’ possum and knee your broncs this way. I’m right anxious to make peace talk.”

  Magill heard a hurried consultation and then the same man who had spoken before yelled, “Who are you and what are you doin’ on Boxed Circle range?”

  “Sorry,” the cowboy answered, “but I didn’t know this was Boxed Circle range or any other brand for that matter. My name’s Magill. I’m on my way to White Water. I just came up from below the border. And there aren’t any wanted bills out for me as far as I know. Now would you all mind elucidatin’ the reason behind this bushwhackin’ and bullet reception? I don’t mind admittin’ I’m a mite uncomfortable hunkered here behind my bronc and what’s more we’re both hungry enough to eat the hoof of a coyote.” It was a long speech for Magill, who was ordinarily a taciturn man, but he did not want trouble, particularly now, before he had even seen the ranch he had come to take over.

  “All right, Magill,” the leader of the riders replied. “You’ve got us skylined and we’re not lookin’ for trouble either. Come closer and take a looksee. We’re raisin’ our hands and kneein’ our broncs to meet you We aren’t bad hombres, just a rancher and three waddies tryin’ to protect our property. If your talk is straight, you’ve got nothin’ to fear from us.”

  Magill liked the sound of that voice and just as soon as he saw the four pair of hands lift and silhouette, he rose to his feet and began moving warily towards them, but with his gun still palmed and with, his glance probing the shadowy faces of the men. When they were close, he said:

  “I can’t see what you look like and I’d prefer to. Hold that pose a minute and twist your faces so that I can see you better in the moonlight. After that hornet you sent buzzin’ by me, I still can’t afford to take chances.”

  The leader laughed dryly, but at word from him, all of them leaned their heads back and turned so that Magill could get a better look at them, and the man said, “I hope the slug didn’t come t
oo close. Tex is ridin’ nights and he’s inclined to be a mite jittery. We’ve had trouble with rustlers, and when your match flared, he fired more to scare you than anythin’ else.”

  Magill took one good look and slid his gun back into his holster. With the exception of the leader, who was obviously the rancher himself and owner of the property Magill had been trespassing on, the others were just plain-faced punchers, neither soft-looking nor tough.

  “Satisfied?” the rancher demanded when he saw the cowboy slide his gun back into place.

  “Plenty,” Magill answered quickly and with a wide grin lighting his homely features and making his grey eyes shine in the moonlight. “I can pick a thoroughbred out of a herd of fuzztails any day. Drop your hands and let’s palaver. I’ve got more time than I know what to do with. I’m honin’ to know more about this valley.”

  Magill flicked another match into flame with his thumbnail and stuck it to the still unlighted cigarette between his lips. He did it purposely to give those men a better look at his own features.

  “Why do you want to know about this valley?” The rancher asked, his voice just a little suspicious and puzzled.

  “There’s a spread here known as the Lazy Y,” the cowboy replied, and he heard one of the men give a grunt of surprise. “I own it. Leastways that was the news I got a bit delayed down in old Mexico. But who are you, Mister? What’s your moniker?”

  “Then you’re Walter Magill’s nephew!” the rancher exclaimed, and surprise rode his voice. “Well, I’m Cole Bagby. I own this spread, the Boxed Circle. Nobody figured you’d have nerve enough to come back here to claim the Lazy Y.”

  “And why not?” Magill’s glance tried to probe the darkness and to see better the face of the cattlemen above him.

  “There haven’t been very good reports of you,” Bagby answered tersely. “Nobody ever heard your uncle say a good word for you.”

  Magill laughed. “No, I reckon not. But just the same, what I told you a moment ago was true. There aren’t any wanted signs out for me.”

  “Then you’re figuring to settle here in the valley on the Lazy Y?”

  “That’s what I came here for,” Magill replied. “Know of any objections?”

  “No-o-o!” the rancher drawled. “Not exactly. You can rest assured that I haven’t any, but there are some who might have. Walter Magill’s name wasn’t what you might call one to conjure with around here. Still, he was a good friend of my dad’s, and for that reason alone I’d extend a helping hand to his nephew.”

  This was all news to the cowboy. He knew little about his uncle’s life and he had been very much surprised when the letter had finally arrived from his uncle’s attorney notifying him as the only heir to come and take possession of the Lazy Y.

  Magill’s own father had been wealthy and the owner of one of the biggest spreads in Montana. Magill had gone to college, studied agriculture, taken a smattering of medicine, and finally wound up by getting his diploma as a veterinary. But he and his father had never gotten along when he returned to help with the running of the big ranch. Harold Magill, his father, tall and handsome, could not keep his mind off women. One of them, an unscrupulous fortune hunter, had finally wrecked his life and ruined him financially. Young Walter Magill, when but two years out of college, had found himself penniless.

  The husband of the woman who had wrecked his father’s life had framed a robbery job on the boy and Magill, in order to save his skin, had had to flee the country. For five years he had ridden the outlaw trail until his path had crossed with Jim Doane, notorious Federal Marshal. Doane, taking a liking to the boy, had cleared Magill’s name and wrung a confession from the man who had actually committed the crime.

  This had happened only three months previous, and Magill was not yet used to freedom. Not because he had been hounded by law officers, but because of his own fear of the law someday catching up with him.

  “And who might these gentlemen be who would object to me?” Magill queried.

  “Well,” the rancher answered, “first there would be Jeff Lucas, who might object to your usin’ the free grazin’ land that adjoins both your properties. Then there might be Elmer Hyde, whose land’s next to the Lazy Y, and Harvey Patch, not to mention Gordon Tevis. Those three are dirt farmers and as such haven’t much use for cowmen in general.”

  “Sounds like most of the valley,” Magill remarked with a laugh. “How about the townsmen? I might as well know ‘em all from the beginnin’.”

  “There’ll be a few there too,” the rancher replied soberly. “Bugs Langford, the sheriff of the county; Jawbone Kelly, his deputy, and last but not least, Samuel K. Spiker.”

  “Spiker? He’s the banker, isn’t he?”

  “Blankin’ is just one finger he’s got in the pie around here,” Bagby replied sourly. “I could maybe name a few more, but that’ll give you an idea. Anyhow, my advice, if it’s worth anything, is to stay away from the Lazy Y.”

  From the way the rancher’s jaws clamped shut, Magill concluded that the interview was ended; and turning, he lifted himself to the roan’s back. “Thank’s for all the information, Bagby,” he said, “and buenos noches. Any time you’d like to pay me a visit out to the Lazy Y, you’re sure welcome.”

  Leaving the four men still there, he rowelled his pony and headed for the lights of the town that now seemed brighter and nearer. But as the horse turned into the main street and jogged slowly between the walls of false-fronted buildings, with its garishly painted and lighted two saloons, he could feel the pulse of the town hammering against him and giving him a queer tingling sensation in his spine. It was like a live thing, intangible but real, that struck out through the semi-darkness at him. It was unrest, he knew. Trouble, perhaps.

  Shrugging the feeling aside, he found the livery stable and tended to his roan first, carefully giving the animal a thorough rub down and a currying before he gave it the good feed of grain that the little hostler brought to him.

  When that job was done to his complete satisfaction, he moved out into the night, carrying his twin saddle-bags that carried his few possessions, and quartered across the street to the cafe. There was a girl there behind the counter; a girl whose rather coarse features were pretty after a fashion. She looked at him curiously, but kept her lips buttoned and asked no questions. He could feel her puzzled glance on him while he consumed ravenously the food that she placed in front of him.

  Knowing that there is no better place to get information than from the waitress in a small-town cafe, when he had finished his meal and had packed and lit his pipe, he said, “You must have cooked that yourself, ma’am. I never tasted better grub and I’ve eaten in some good hash joints.”

  Her vanity tickled, she smiled at him and leaned her elbows on the counter, her bright blue eyes appraising him. “You’re not the first waddy that’s told me that,” she said, “Stranger here? Expect to stop long?’’

  “Right long,” Magill answered, smiling back at her. He had a certain amount of charm with the opposite sex and although he left them strictly alone because of his father’s experience, he knew there were times when a woman could come in handy. “My name’s Magill, ma’am. Walter Magill’s nephew. I came here to take over the Lazy Y.”

  There was an instantaneous freezing of her smile, and he saw her eyes harden into gleaming pinpoints of light. “Pleased to meet you,” she said, and her voice was like dripping ice water, “but don’t come in here again to eat. No Magill is welcome in this hash house.”

  “Bad as that, eh?” With a shrug he spun a silver dollar on the counter, collected his change, picked up his saddle-bags and, without even a good-night to the girl, shouldered the door open and strolled out again into the night.

  “I guess Mr. Cole Bagby hit the nail on the head,” he told himself as he started down the planked walk to the building marked White Water Inn. “I don’t know what Uncle Walt did to these folks hereabouts, but it does seem like the name Magill sort of stinks to high heaven. Now I wonde
r why? It was a pretty good name in Montana. In fact there was a time when the name Magill meant somethin’.”

  He had almost reached the dimly lighted doorway of the hotel when a figure stepped out in front of him from a dark alleyway between two buildings. Magill saw two things simultaneously as his hand snaked down and locked to the butt of his gun. One was the moonlight glinting on the muzzle of a Colt and the other was the gleam of a star on the man’s checkered shirt.

  Withdrawing his hand from his own weapon the cowboy’s glance raked upward over a high, thin figure to a triangular face that at first seemed like it was all jaw. Instantly he remembered Bagby’s naming of the men who might not like to see him settle here. This, he knew, was Jawbone Kelly, the sheriff’s deputy.

  “Been waitin’ for you, Magill,” the lawman said, and the cowboy saw a huge quid of tobacco swivel from one side of the man’s jaws to the other. “The sheriff ‘ud like to palaver with you. Will you come peaceful or do I have to use my blue lightnin’?”

  “With a gun muzzle proddin’ my ribs,” Magill answered sourly, “I think I’ll come peaceable. Which way?”

  The deputy made an arc with his gun and slid the weapon back into its holster. “Down street.”

  Shifting the weight of the saddle bags to his other shoulder and with the deputy falling into step beside him, Magill marched down the plank walk. When he saw the sign on the dusty window, ‘William Langford, Sheriff of Tuscola County’, he turned in through the door.

  The sheriff sat at his desk with his bootless feet propped on the top. Magill saw a stocky, grey-haired man with deep blue eyes that were almost completely devoid of expression. The eyes lifted to appraise the cowboy as the lawman motioned his visitor to the chair that faced him and for a long moment he continued to stare at Magill, saying nothing, but studying him thoughtfully.

  The lanky, reed-like deputy remained at the door with his grey eyes fixed on a spot on the wall in back of the cowboy, silent like his superior, but with his big jaws moving back and forth with rhythmic regularity as he moved the quid of tobacco back and forth in his big mouth.