Born Savage

  SPTTTING BLOOD

  The barrel lashed out in a thudding side swipe. Ethan crashed forward and the table tipped at a crazy angle, then skidded and fell over. Ordway, his one good eye flaming, landed on top of the giant.

  The barrel of the .44 began to smash down into Ethan’s upturned face. The man was soon a bleeding mass of bruised flesh.

  He groaned, rolled over and half propped himself up on an elbow, spitting a stream of blood.

  “Finish me while you can,” he slobbered in a whisper. “You’ll never get another chance ..before you die…

  BORN SAVAGE

  by William Hopson

  PRESTIGE BOOKS NEW YORK, NEW YORK

  ONE

  Two thousand head of Mexican cattle, plus a few strays picked up on the long drive north to Colorado, lay soundless out there in the darkness when Channon Ordway awoke. The very stillness itself was what brought Ordway awake, all senses instantly alert. He was bedded down about seventy-five yards from where his crew of tired vaqueros had camped the evening before.

  Ordway came up on an elbow, his .44 Colt six-shooter in a palm where it had lain all night His damp slicker rustled loudly as he threw aside the blankets. The feeling that something was definitely wrong, again, clung clammily like the wet mist on his slicker.

  He peered through the darkness and could see nothing.

  Not a sound disturbed his ears. No night riders in pairs circling the bedded down herd and singing softly the eternal love songs of Old Mexico. Ordway’s tough grulla night horse, tethered a few feet away, stood dozing.

  A horse sleeps soundest from two until five, and Ordway knew from the slumped, hipshot posture, plus a glance at the stars, that it must be about two hours before dawn.

  Ordway rose like a dark cat and strapped on his gunbelt. Standing first on one wool-socked foot and then the other, he jerked on a pair of Mexican made boots weighted with ornate silver spurs. The rowels were made from drilled pesos, round and tineless. He had slept in half-length chaparajas of heavy thorn-proof leather.

  When he added a huge red sombrero and slung a bandoleer of .45-70-500 cartridges over his left shoulder he looked to be exactly what he was: a tough, fighting man; survivor of a bloody but abortive revolution.

  In this last respect he’d fared better than most of the others. He’d not only escaped with his life, he’d also brought out two thousand head of prime cattle to bring home to the Ordway ranch in Pronghorn Basin.

  Within two minutes the blanket-slicker roll was cantle tied and Channon Ordway was ready. Carrying the short, ugly-looking carbine in his left hand, he crept warily through the menacing silence toward where the two-wheel, ox-drawn carreta containing their food and other trail supplies had been left the evening before.

  All he found, however, were the ash-covered remains of the cook’s banked fire.

  The cook and crew, the cart; everybody and everything—had vanished as Ordway lay in slumber.

  Ordinarily he would have heard them go. But there had been little sleep or rest for him since the day three weeks ago when Sonny Shackleford and Red Waldo and their cutthroat crew had made an attempted foray against the herd. Armed only with short-range repeaters, Sonny and Red had forgotten what oversized 500-grain slugs could do in the hands of a man who’d already killed Waldo’s brother over a card table in Cheyenne.

  In the face of such shocking power the notorious outfit had pulled off and disappeared to lick their wounds, the pudgy Waldo mounted behind one of the others.

  And that was what puzzled Ordway now. His vaqueros had feared nothing in the universe short of God, the Devil, and their village priests. They’d fought beside Ordway in mounted battles. Yet they had deserted like flimsy shadows.

  “They probably rolled that oxcart back at least a half mile by hand before hooking on and lighting out,” Ordway told himself, a little in disbelief.

  But why had they left without pay? And without the bonus?

  His old Ute godfather had once said: “you seek an enemy, think back, never ahead.” Ordway thought back. A name flashed into his mind.

  “Why, of course,” he almost snorted at himself. “Step Eaton!”

  Ordway had been raised with Step as well as Sonny Shackleford in Tulac. It was Step who had accompanied him to Mexico as friend and guard over fifteen thousand dollars borrowed from Mike Adkins’ bank in Tulac. They were to buy and drive back a herd of feeders to the Pronghorn spread, owned jointly by Channon and his gaunt uncle, Ethan.

  But Step’s greed apparently had got the best of him. He’d shot Channon Ordway in the back down there in Mexico, robbed him of the money, and left him to die in the Chihuahua desert. Ordway often had wondered if Step would have the nerve to come back home.

  It now appeared a good guess that he had. He’d returned and pulled the wool over Ethan’s eyes—and perhaps the blue ones of Kathy Perry. Maybe he’d thrown in with Sonny …

  Ordway bent over a pile of brush, gathered by the cook the day before, and quickly built a fire over the coals. As it crackled into light he turned to get into the protection of the shadows. But he froze in sheer astonishment at the sight of a man who had materialized as mysteriously as the trail crew had disappeared.

  The man stood back of a levelled sporting-type bird gun.

  “That’s right, old fellow,” he said pleasantly. “Don’t move!”

  He came a step closer. “Because if you do my very capable niece on the other side will shoot off an arm should I fail to do so.”

  He was a fairly tall man in brown corduroy jodhpurs, dove-colored corduroy coat, with a cap of similar material and color, The odd thing about the cap was that in addition to a visor in front, it had a second visor slanting down at the back.

  He was so obviously out of place in this wilderness country that under different circumstances Channon Ordway might have silently considered him completely ridiculous.

  But there was something about the man, the way he held the gun; something in the icy blue eyes that bespoke the hunter. This man was as deadly as a Mexican jungle jaguar.

  Behind Ordway came another sound, the faint scuff of a soft, flat-heel leather boot. He twisted for a look. A girl in fringed leather riding skirt and purple blouse stepped into view. She too carried a light sporting-type shotgun with fancy engraving on the barrels and an ornately checkered stock.

  Ordway hadn’t seen that gun in fifteen years, since he’d been a boy of twelve.

  He spoke equably to the cool man in jodhpurs. ‘‘You’re lucky the fire was crackling. Otherwise I’d have dropped you in your tracks.”

  “Would you now?” the voice was spiced with dry toleration. “I’ve hunted wild animals in many places, my friend. So has my niece.”

  Ordway studied her closely. She was bareheaded with copper-colored tresses in a tight bun at the back of her neck. But it was her eyes that startled him. He would have sworn they held a faint obsidian cast. Black as his own and yet different. They shone with a strange luster.

  He spoke to her uncle. ‘Were wasting time and I’ve got a herd on my hands. Who are you and what do you want?”

  The man, equally strange in his own way, gave a reproving chuckle. “You disappoint me, Mr. Ordway. I’ve been told I bear a strong resemblance to an eccentric older brother who bought Squaw Valley a few miles below Pronghorn Basin and lived there in solitude.”

  “Wentworth Randolph? The Hermit?” .

  “Of course. You shot him to death the day you left for Mexico in order to have his land when you returned with cattle.”

  “Is that a fact?” Ordway snorted disgustedly.

  “Quite. Unfortunately for you and your terrible uncle, you over-looked the possibility of heirs. I’m Eric Randolph and Mrs. Randolph is at the ranch. This is my niece, Vernell.”
>
  “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” the girl responded correctly, and with the proper amount of hostility to match “Are you now?” Channon Ordway suddenly grinned at her. He shoot that crazy Hermit? Old Sheriff Tobe Whitehouse, who had been one of the old outlaw bunch, and his deputy Bob Koonce, another of the outlaw kids like Ordway and Sonny and Step Eaton—they’d straighten out this idiotic mess in a hurry!

  The girl sensed the snorting contempt going through the wild-looking, black-whiskered man from Mexico. Her half-raised weapon went all the way to her shoulder. The small double bores shifted until they were aimed at Ordway’s right arm.

  “Drop your rifle first, Mr. Ordway,” she directed quietly. “And please let it fall easily. Every, man has one weakness and Eric’s compelling one is good guns. He undoubtedly plans to add yours to his collection after you pay the penalty for the murder of Wentworth Randolph.”

  Ordway dutifully eased the Sharps single-shot to the grass beside his spurred boots. He stared blandly at a brief expanse of her legs between the hem of the riding skirt and the tops of her boots. She knew it was deliberate, that he was baiting her, and he grinned when the desired flush of anger came to her cheeks.

  She was a far cry from little Kathy Perry’s wholesome prettiness, but…Santa Maria, how she could make a man’s pulse pound!

  “All right. Now what’s next?” he inquired interestedly of her.

  “Watch him, Eric, while I secure his revolver,” she said to her unde. “It seems incredible, but Step Eaton has warned us that he can draw it from the sheath and fire it in less than one second.”

  Well, Ordway thought all doubt now gone. So Step had returned home with that stolen money after all. Just couldn’t give up the idea of getting Kathy, huh?

  So now there’d be a gun job to do in Tulac once Ordway finished fooling around with this loco greenhorn and his tiger cat niece.

  He made no move as the girl stepped in from behind, leaned forward, and with outstretched hand gingerly plucked the .44 Colt from its worn sheath.

  Ordway spoke over his shoulder. “An old Ute Indian who was around when I was born always said to be curious about your enemies.”

  “Indeed,” she sniffed, circling away as though to get upwind from something that had been dead for a few days.

  “How did you get rid of my trail crew? How and why?”

  The sardonic amusement in his black eyes was too much for her. He was supposed to curse, to argue, to deny. He should have clenched his fists in helpless anger and roared at them—anything except look at her with hidden laughter dancing wickedly in his own black eyes.

  She was the one who lost control. “Tell the murderer, Uncle Eric!” she cried out passionately. “Tell him why we are taking his cattle!”

  “Yes, you do that, Uncle Eric,” Channon Ordway chided, “before she busts a corset.”

  “It’s quite simple, Mr. Ordway. When we arrived here to take over Squaw Valley, we found Ethan Ordway already in possession. When the two of you planned and executed old Went, you apparently didn’t count upon the possibility of legal heirs.”

  “Naturally not,” Ordway nodded agreeably. “I expect that Ethan was plumb flabbergasted.”

  “Not at all. In fact, it took a court order from Denver to dispossess him.”

  “That doesn’t account for you stealing my herd.”

  Eric Randolph acted as though he hadn’t heard. He went on, “Once here, we saw tremendous possibilities and decided to remain and ranch, by stocking the valley with two thousand head of prime cattle.”

  “Good idea,” Ordway approved. “Only trouble is that only amateurs would try to stock at one whack. The neighbors might talk. What you shoulda done,” he chuckled, “was wait until I got this herd home and then stole ’em from me a few head at a time.”

  Eric Randoph’s imperturbability faded. His voice turned grim.

  “Yes, so we learned. That was exactly the way Ethan Ordway denuded Squaw Valley of every head of the two thousand Stockers we bought and put on our newly inherited ranch.”

  All the levity went out of Channon Ordway’s eyes above the short black mustache and three weeks growth of whiskers. Every word this man spoke was probably true. Ethan Ordway had led Channon’s own father into outlawry, which had cost his father his life. Ethan was a harsh, terrible man.

  Unlike so many of the others who had reformed, Ethan was still, always had been, an unregenerated outlaw at heart.

  “What’s the matter, Mr. Ordway?” the girl asked bitingly and with malicious relish. “Do you find matters less amusing?”

  “You misguided idiots!” he snapped at them. “Give me time enough and I’ll find out who took your cattle and where. And if Ethan Ordway is responsible settlement will be made. Tobe Whitehouse will see to that.”

  The reply shocked him still more. “Sheriff Whitehouse is dead these many months, my misguided friend. He was found murdered. Step Eaton is serving out the old fellow’s unfinished term of office.”

  “Step! Carrying old Tobe’s badge?” Ordway was almost aghast

  “Except for his overindulgence at times, I assure you he’ll see you hang.”

  “Hang hell,” Orway growled. “Once he gets his handcuffs on me, I’ll never live long enough to stand trial.”

  The girl said, “Shouldn’t I have the men get the herd moving, Eric?”

  “By all means, my dear. Tell Sonny Shackleford the prisoner has been disarmed and for him and Red Waldo to get the cattle under way at once while you and I take Mr. Ordway on ahead to the ranch.”

  “Hold on!” Channon Ordway commanded.

  “Yes?” It was the girl’s turn to be amused and she made the most of it with a half smile of tolerance. She and her uncle had shaken this tough gunfighter— shaken him hard “How come you’re mixed up with that outfit?”

  “An undesirable but undeniable necessity. As I understood it, you killed one of his men. In retaliation, he tried to raid your cattle three weeks ago, and,” the man gave a trace of a smile, “has been licking his wounds and pride ever since. I offered him a generous percentage to let me plan the strategy. This time it seems to have been somewhat more successful.”

  “Did Sonny ever tell you—didn’t you ever hear that we were lads together in Tulac?” demanded Ordway incredulously.

  “It’s never been a habit of mine to listen to local gossip.”

  “Neither did the Hermit,” snapped Ordway. “It’s one reason he probably was killed.”

  The girl disappeared, mounted and rode away to where, no doubt, Sonny waited with his usual sneering grin. The slow anger in Ordway rose steadily into a bright hot flame. If this aloof bird in his fancy britches had deigned to lower himself enough to make some friends, he’d have damn well avoided Sonny Shackleford and Red Waldo like the plague.

  Presently the sound of several horses approached and grew loud. Randolph looked off among the trees and frowned.

  “I ordered Sonny—” he began frigidly in the manner of a man accustomed to dealing with natives.

  “Nobody orders Sonny Shackleford to do anything,” Ordway snapped, almost adding, “except my uncle Ethan,”

  He added furiously, “Didn’t anybody ever tell you that his old man was lynched as a desperado when Sonny was fourteen? Haven’t you ever heard that he was an outlaw at fifteen, that he’s been a leader of range hoodlums in Wyoming for the past several years?”

  “Really, old fellow, you’re beginning to annoy me immensely,” Eric Randolph said in the very best British ranch owner tradition.

  Sounds of several people dismounting close beyond the firelight came loud and clear. The girl was the first to enter, her face flushed with anger.

  She said, “They disobeyed you, Eric. Is it possible that in hiring this group of range ruffians you’ve allowed the camel to stick its head inside our tent?”

  “I ain’t no camel,” laughed Sonny Shackleford. “I just wanted to see old Chann again after thinking he was dead all this time.”

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p; Eric Randolph said idly, “Tm not accustomed to having my orders disobeyed, Shackleford. Say what you wish and then get those cattle on their feet and moving. If Ethan Ordway knew about them ahead of their arrival, anything could happen.”

  You poor, misguided damned fool, Ordway thought bitingly, and yet with a touch of pity. Hasn’t anybody told you that Ethan has dominated Step and Sonny since they were kids in Tulac in the old outlaw days? Can’t you get it through your head that this isn’t Scotland or Vermont?

  Sonny strode forward past the fire followed by his men. He was twenty-three now. Tawny, muscle-lithe, proud of his gun toughness. Sneering and arrogant because he dominated older men of his gang and even his pardner Red Waldo at times. Boastful that his father hadn’t waited to be hanged: he’d kicked the barrel from beneath his own feet.

  A laugh broke from him and his yellow eyes danced wickedly as he looked at Ordway’s vaquero clothing. The two men hadn’t talked together since Channon had shot one of Sonny’s men to death over a Cheyenne card table eighteen months before.

  “Well, well!” Sonny jeered. “So you got back home, huh, Chann? Shucks, ol’ Step said you got killed in a revolution down in Mexico. Said you’d gone plumb native with half the gals down there before you got hit.”

  He laughed again with a wicked glance at Vernell Randolph. Red Waldo, forty and heavy but packing little fat, edged in closer with a hard scowl. His red-rimmed eyes were unblinking.

  “What else did Step say?” Ordway queried quietly. Best to find out what he could now. Both Sonny and his pardner Waldo has sworn to kill Ordway after that shootout in the Cheyenne saloon.

  “He told Kathy she was a real beauty but that you musta thought them Mex gals much purtier. Said you had never intended to come back.”

  Ordway turned and looked at Eric Randolph as the men, at a covert signal from Red Waldo, began to converge.

  “Mister, under other circumstances I could feel a little sorry for you but I don’t. Anything you get from them you’ll deserve. And that goes for you too, Miss.”