The Tall Men (The Classic Film Collection) by Henry Will

Author:Henry, Will [Henry, Will]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781477833308
Publisher: AmazonEncore
Published: 2010-05-24T16:00:00+00:00

Not too long ago there were grizzled oldsters still mending saddles or swamping out bunkhouses in northern Montana who could tell you, from having been there, of the following three minutes around that Kansas campfire. The main idea you would get from their rheumy-eyed remembering would be that Tom Horn and Bat Masterson and Butch Cassidy “wasn’t in it” with a certain tall, quiet boy from San Saba Texas.

Stark opened the pot by stiffly demanding names and a stating of business from the guerrilla visitors.

He got both, back-to-back.

Three of the bearded ruffians shoved their horses farther into the firelight. Their leader, a stocky, pastyfaced youth of twenty, hooked his jackbooted leg around his saddlehorn, shifted his quid of longleaf Burley, spat into the fire, delivered himself to the required information.

“You’re lookin’ at Carter Jennison, yours truly,” he bowed mockingly. “And Simm Webb and Burris Walker.”

“Any relation to ’Redleg’ Jennison?” inquired Ben civilly. He was referring to the hated war leader of the Kansas Union guerrillas.

“We’re kin,” scowled the youth, not liking the plain inference in the big Texan’s wry-mouthed query. “Where’s that leave us?”

“Waitin’ to hear what’s brung you down on us poor defenseless southern boys,” interrupted Clint smilingly. He moved up with the answer, siding Ben but standing well away from him.

“You won’t need to wait all night,” sneered the youthful Jayhawker. “We’re from Alvah Jenkins, you may have heard the name Jenkins sends you his love and suggests one of you ride back with us, with somethin’ in yer saddlebags besides hardtack and jerky. The goin’ price is two dollars a head, suckin’ calves admitted at half price. We’re told you’re drivin’ close to three thousand head but Alvah’s an easy man and likes round numbers.”

“All right, Jennison.”

Stark stepped toward him.

“How round?”

“Five thousand dollars, gold or greenbacks.”

“We haven’t got it. You’ll have to take a draft.”

“So? That’s interestin’. What bank?”

“The Mastin Bank, Kansas City.”

“Could be. Sounds all right. It’s fer Alvah to say… You comin’ now?”

Stark opened his mouth, but it was Ben Allison the words came from.

He said it soft and he said it slow. And after that the softness and slowness had had their play for the evening.

“No, you Yankee bastards, you’re goin’.”

The sneer was still on young Jennison’s mouth when the .44 slug made it immortal. Simm Webb was fast. He got his righthand gun almost clear of its leather. And only almost. Clint’s three shots bucked into him, all in the belly close under the heart, nearly tearing him in two. The third guerrilla, with the advantage of the split second Ben took on Jennison, got one shot off. It was wide of Ben by a foot, and for a very solid reason. In the instant of its discharge, Ben’s second and third shots were shattering his cheek and collarbones, respectively.

The blast of the Texas brothers’ 44’s was still slamming back and forth between the close-parked canvas walls of the chuck and wood wagons when its uproar was cut through by the backing volley of five interested fellow Texans.

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