Lynch-Rope Law

INTRODUCTION

For the third time in this series of Triple-A Western Classics, I have chosen a Western novel employing a pair of stalwart and humorous cowboys known as Chuckaluck Thompson and Twister Malone. These characters were created by Davis Dresser, you will recall, and the present title is Lynch-Rope Law.

The pleasures of reading, it seems to me, range far beyond the limits of a particular story, however absorbing and satisfying it may be. I was initially attracted to these Westerns by Davis Dresser because they combine the true flavor of the West with my own brand of fiction, the detective story, and because Chuckaluck and Twister are enormously engaging characters. But when I have finished a particular adventure, I find that the immediate satisfaction is deepened through recollection of their earlier exploits, and these in turn recall other books that I have read. In this way, present pleasures merge with and reinforce past ones, all contributing to the reservoir of enjoyment which a man builds up through the years by reading widely.

For example, great friends and collaborators such as the cowboy heroes of Lynch-Rope Law have appeared again and again in literature. The Three Musketeers of Alexandre Dumas are a classic example. Robinson Crusoe was in sorry state until he discovered his man Friday; Hamlet, with the weight of the world upon him, confided in Horatio; and even Sherlock Holmes, as self-sufficient perhaps as any man could be, thought Dr. Watson a necessary companion to his investigations. Other familiar parallels may occur to you, and so the total reading pleasure of a lifetime becomes something more than the sum of its individual parts.

I do not say that this frame of reference is essential to your enjoyment of Lynch-Rope Law. I can recommend it just as confidently for and by its own sake, and I mention the ideas expressed above only as a personal reaction, with some assurance that they are a part of common experience. But if your own imagination ranges no farther than the book before you, you will find it exciting and suspenseful, a story of Triple-A excellence, with its full quota of Western action, adventure, and atmosphere.

Erle Stanley Gardner

Temecula, California

June 1, 1950

1

Though it was only mid-afternoon, shadows lay heavy on the path twisting along the floor of a steep canyon leading into the Davis Mountains of West Texas. Weathered rock walls sounded with the dull echoing of shod hoofs keeping pace with the dismal strains of A Letter Edged in Black, feelingly rendered by Chuckaluck Thompson on his mouth organ.

Riding his customary neck’s length ahead of Chuckaluck, Twister Malone’s long thin body was tensed in the saddle. He had a way of seeming always on the alert, as though hopefully expectant of unseen danger around each bend of the trail.

Long endurance of Chuckaluck’s music had built up Twister’s indifference to it. Years ago, he had given up trying to persuade his rotund partner to add a few cheerful tunes to his repertoire. Chuckaluck’s happy-go-lucky nature took a perverse delight in such refrains as I Was Just a Gambler’s Sweetheart, The Baggage Coach Ahead, and others of a similar lugubrious nature, and Twister had long ago become inured to them.

Twister’s long nose twitched as they rounded a bend into another stretch of steep-walled solitude. This rugged mountainous region of West Texas was new to both of them, and they were eager to be through it and across the Rio Grande where they had long been promising themselves a life of ease and indolence at the hacienda of a friend in Mañana-Land.

Sniffing a deep breath of the suddenly tainted mountain air into his nostrils, Twister darted a sharp glance back at his companion to see if he, too, was aware of the change from the clean smell of juniper and mountain oak.

Chuckaluck’s short broad figure was slouched sleepily in the saddle. Reins were looped over his saddlehorn, letting his buckskin follow the pace of Twister’s roan. His eyes were half-closed and there was an expression of wistful contentment on the pudgy features lulled into half-waking repose by his own music.

Facing forward again, Twister’s bold gray eyes were bright with curiosity. The jagged scar of an ancient knifecut that gave him his nickname twisted the corner of his right eye up into a perpetual expression of satanic mirth, while the unmarred left cheek presented a challenging grimness to the world.

The music behind him stopped, and Chuckaluck’s plaintive drawl broke through the echoes that lingered in the air above them:

Doggone it, Twister. D’yuh reckon we’re on the right road to Fort Davis? We ain’t met no one for hours.

I reckon, said Twister guilelessly, without looking back. Maybe all the folks hereaboots stay in durin’ the day.

Maybe they’re all daid, you mean, don’t yuh? Smells tuh me like maybe they ain’t been buried yet.

I been smellin’ something funny too, Twister admitted, dropping his reins to the neck of his roan and taking the makings from his shirt pocket. His keen gaze roamed ahead up the rocky defile while he deftly built a cigarette.

They ain’t nothin’ funny aboot that stink, Chuckaluck retorted. I don’t like this here country no-way.

Cain’t be far tuh Fort Davis, I reckon. Last sign we passed said six miles.

A suddenly awakening snort came from Chuckaluck. Yuh mean way back yonder aboot noon?

Yeh. Twister continued to keep his gaze strictly ahead.

Then we must be on the wrong road, yuh dang fool, Chuckaluck wailed. I know these hawses we’re straddlin’ ain’t wuth a damn, but they kin shore cover more’n six miles in three hours.

Maybe that sign was for the crows tuh fly by, Twister soothed him. His scarred right cheek twitched happily but Chuckaluck couldn’t see that indication of his partner’s inward glee.

I’ll bet, by gorry, I know what you’ve did, Chuckaluck mourned. While I was practisin’ some new chords you forgot tuh watch them crossroads the feller back in Balmorhea told us aboot. I bet we’ve done swung off the main road into the mountains an’ ain’t gettin’ nowhere fast.

We gotta get some’eres. This trail cain’t just lead to the jumpin’-off place.

Yeh. An’ you know where it leads just as good as I do, Chuckaluck charged angrily. Into the mountains where we was stric’ly warned tuh stay away from if we wanted tuh keep on bein’ healthy.

"Feller in Balmorhea didn’t say why we shouldn’t ride this away, Twister argued. I reckon we got as much right …"

Dang you, Twister, I’m shore gonna wring yore fool neck some day. If I as much as relax to enjoy m’se’f one minute, you go stickin’ yore long nose into trouble. We’re turnin’ back right now. You hear me, Twister?

Twister Malone turned and grinned back at his harassed partner. Tuh hear you talk, a man’d think you was scairt.

I am, b’golly. White brows came down over Chuckaluck’s mild blue eyes in a fierce frown. You give me yore word of honor when we left Arizony that you was plumb through spittin’ in the face of trouble.

Shucks, can I he’p it if my haws takes the wrong turn? We might’s well ride on, now. It’s too far tuh turn back an’ get tuh Fort Davis tuhnight.

I ain’t no buzzard, Chuckaluck told him grimly. That’s death we’re smellin’, an’ you know dang well it ain’t nothin’ else. We was told back in Balmorhea there was feudin’ goin’ on hereaboots. I ain’t havin’ no piece of it.

For all his grumbling talk, Twister knew his partner through and through. Loudly proclaiming his love of peace, the mild-featured pudgy man was never more than half a pace to the rear when it came to backing up Twister’s play. Slothful and easy-going, he always hung back and let Twister start trouble, but he never failed to be in at the finish.

Yeh, Twister agreed softly, I reckon yo’re right aboot that bein’ the smell of death. Heavy an’ sickenin’, ain’t it? Sorta sweetish. That ain’t no stray cow-corpse, Chuckaluck. There’s been wholesale killin’ hereaboots clost.

Which is all the more reason for us tuh turn back an’ not mix into it. I know dang well that us putrifyin’ wouldn’t add no sweetness to the air. He reined his buckskin to a halt in the trail, but Twister grinned back mockingly and kept his roan moving.

You can ride on back the long way. I’ll prob’ly find me a short-cut up around the next bend or two, an’ I’ll be in Fort Davis time you’ve made it back to the forks. Maybe have time tuh get in a leetle gamblin’ ’fore bedtime.

Gambling was Chuckaluck’s only vice. He could no more pass up the siren sound of the click of dice or the slap of cards than he could quit breathing. The thought that Twister might find a short-cut to town and have time for an evening at the gaming tables while he was circling back the long way, was more than Chuckaluck could stand. With a groan, he spurred his buckskin forward to catch his partner.

All right, we’ll hunt us a short-cut. An’ when we find one we’ll put this stink behind us with never a look-see tuh tell whether it’s cows or little babies that’re rotting in the sun.

Shore, Twister agreed easily. I ain’t takin’ to this no more kindly than you.

Indeed, the stench was all-pervasive as they rode on up the silent canyon. It clogged their lungs and smarted their eyes, caused their mounts to toss their heads uneasily and snort with displeasure as each forward step took them further into the sinister pall that lay heavily on the mountains.

With Chuckaluck crowding him, Twister raked his roan into a lope up the winding trail, ducking his head so the brim of his hat broke the air in front of him, lifting his horse into a climbing gallop as the putrid smell of decaying flesh became almost unendurable.

Thus, with heads bowed as though against a stinging sleet, the partners raced up the canyon and around a turn where it widened suddenly into a broad flat basin with wooded slopes lifted to jagged encircling peaks.

As though the canyon were a funnel drawing off the smell with the afternoon breeze, the air was cleaner as soon as they topped out of its mouth.

They lifted their heads and stared about incredulously at the scene of desolation and of horror they had ridden upon suddenly.

Spreading out in a terrible circle completely surrounding a pool of stagnant water near the mouth of the canyon, sun-whitened skeletons and half-decayed carcasses were mute evidence of a range tragedy such as they had never witnessed before.

Bleak-eyed, with astounded curses dribbling from his lips, Twister spurred on across the basin to the farther slope where the breeze carried the stench away and he could halt and look down on the scene without wondering whether his belly was going to act up or not.

Reining up beside him, Chuckaluck’s usually pleasant face was a grim mask of rage. Poisoned water-hole, he grated. That’s what ’tis, plain enough. Not only range-stuff, Twister, but look at them deer. There’s a four-point buck yonder, an’ two does. An’ there’s a fawn.

An’ coyotes an’ rabbits an’ even birds. The cold drawl of Twister’s voice told of the stress underneath the surface. Settling himself in the saddle while his brooding gaze roamed over the death scene, he methodically cursed any man who would poison a water-hole.

Chuckaluck drew out his mouth organ with great deliberation and wiped it off on his sleeve, then drooped his lips over it and drew out a wailing funereal melody to accompany Twister’s blasphemous remarks.

A rider came cautiously from a clump of juniper behind them while they were thus engaged in expressing themselves. So absorbed were they that neither of them heard his approach.

The brim of a floppy black hat drooped limply over a seamed and sun-leathered face with thin lips set in a grim straight line, and black eyes gleaming fanatically beneath thatched gray brows. Claw-like hands balanced a rusty Sharps rifle across the saddlehorn, and a sway-backed horse shambled beneath the slight weight of its rider, gaunt, thin-necked, and with every rib protruding.

Unknown to the partners, the rider came close, lifting the rifle muzzle to bear upon their backs. A shrill vindictive voice crackled out above Twister’s cursing and Chuckaluck’s doleful lament for the dead, bringing them around to stare in utter stupefaction at the steady muzzle of the rifle and the stony face of an old woman snuggled against the butt.

They slowly lifted their hands in response to her command, their jaws sagging ludicrously as they stared at her.

What are you two doing here? she demanded sharply. Coming to gloat over your work? You can ride back and tell your boss the Widow Kelso hasn’t drunk his poisoned water yet. That is, one of you can. I’m sending the other one down on his knees to drink out of that pool my cows have drunk from. Off your horses … both of you.

Twister’s scarred cheek jerked up into a grin of unholy delight while Chuckaluck moistened his lips and tried to stammer out an explanation of how they came to be there.

I’m not listening to anything you say. The Widow Kelso’s finger was crooked about the trigger. I know you’re Tom Gilmore’s men because no other riders would dare to be on the Circle Dot range since Tom sent out word they was to stay off. You thought two of you could handle a crazy old woman, didn’t you? With six-guns hung on your hips and all. I’d drill you both and be done with it except I want the pleasure of seeing one of you drink that water and die like I’ve watched my cattle die. Which one will it be?

Now there, said Twister happily to Chuckaluck in the intense silence following her ultimatum, is a woman after yore own heart, pardner. You come up here to ask her tuh marry you … so what’re you waitin’ for?

Chuckaluck’s moonlike face blanched to a sickly yellow, and sweat began to stream down his cheeks.

What kind of talk is that? the widow asked sharply. Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes. I wasn’t born yesterday.

Why, no’m, Twister said with a pained expression on his smooth left cheek. Yo’re hearin’ it plumb straight, on’y my pardner’s sorta bashful-like. You see, we heard aboot you an’ the raw deal Tom Gilmore was givin’ you in town, an’ how you were fightin’ back the best a lone female could, an’ Chuckaluck says to me, he says: ‘Twister, I’ve stayed single all these years waitin’ tuh meet a woman I’d be proud tuh marry, an’ by golly the Widow Kelso shore sounds like what I’ve been pinin’ tuh find. Le’s ride out to the Circle Dot,’ he says, ‘an’ if she’ll have me, I’ll lay my heart an’ my hand at her feet.’ Get down on yore knees, Chuckaluck, an’ prepose to the lady.

The rifle muzzle was wavering. Well, now, stammered the militant widow, well, now …

Down off yore haws, Twister commanded his flabbergasted partner sternly. Cain’t you see she’s just a-waitin’ tuh hear you say them sweet words of love you was rehearsin’ all the way out?

Chuckaluck gulped and bobbed his head up and down as though it were on hinges. Yeh, but …

If skin the color of smoked bacon rind could blush, the Widow Kelso would most certainly have accomplished the feat. As it was, she lowered her rifle shakily, and temporized:

This is so sudden I don’t rightly know what to say. I’ve been doing my best to keep the Circle Dot going since Rufe died but it’s been a terrible struggle with Tom Gilmore crowding me to the wall. I’m not saying … the Circle Dot don’t need a man that’s not afraid to buck Tom Gilmore. A wistful note of uncertainty crept into her voice.

Chuckaluck, Twister assured her jovially, ain’t afeered of nothin’ nor nobody. You an’ him’ll hit it off fust rate, I betcha. S’pose we ride up to the ranch an’ sorta talk it over.

2

Squatting on their heels with their backs against the split-log west wall of the Circle Dot ranchhouse, Twister and Chuckaluck gravely watched the slanting shadows of twilight creep across the basin.

Both men were acutely conscious of brisk movements inside the house, the clatter of pans and the thump of a wooden spoon against the side of a pottery bowl.

Pulling his hat low to shade his eyes against the last rays of the evening sun, Twister squinted at a rail corral where their unsaddled horses were hurrying to eat up the last of the Widow Kelso’s hay from under the nose of her bony nag.

Looks like the Circle Dot mighta been quite a spread … oncet.

Chuckaluck nodded gloomily. It’s shore as hell run down to a frazzle now.

"’Cordin’ to the widder’s story, she’s had a tough row to hoe since her ol’ man got hisse’f gunned. Sorta pathetic, the way the ol’ gal has stayed bowed up in the middle an’ won’t give up