Donald Hamilton: The Removers

"So does the man upstairs," Smitty said. "He's been wearing out that photo, looking at it for inspiration."

"Anything else?" I asked. "No other pix?"

"No, but there's an unconfirmed report on the master card, here, to the effect that Martell was seen in Reno recently, carrying a gun for a racketeer named Fredericks. The report is being investigated, it says here."

I made a wry face at the screen. That was why Mac had a green kid in Nevada, then, and was asking me to back him up. It would be one of those annoying deals where you're on standby duty simply because you happen to be around. You haven't got anything specific to do, but you can be damn sure that just about the time you're about to turn out the light and go to bed with the girl, the phone will start ringing.

Not that I had a girl in mind-or if I did, she was married to another man, and if I knew her, she'd be taking her marriage vows very seriously. She'd always been a very serious girl.

WEST OF RENO, they have some quite respectable mountains, as the early emigrants discovered to their dismay, including some folks named Donner, who couldn't manage to beat the snow across, and spent the winter in camp eating each other. There's a monument to them up towards the pass that bears their name. Well, maybe they earned it, but it does seem a little unfair to the better-organized outfits who made it on a regular diet and so missed the opportunity to get their names carved in stone or cast in bronze-I forget the exact material used.

I'd been up that way years before, but this time I swung down along the foothills after leaving the motel. It was close to three in the afternoon when I reached the metropolis of Middle Fork, which consisted of a general store with a gas pump out front. They supplied me with soda pop and directions, said I couldn't possibly miss it; and I proceeded back into the hills.

The little road wound upwards with the usual assortment of bumps, ruts, and unreliable-looking bridges. It forked here and there. Sometimes there were signs pointing to various places, including the ranch I was looking for, but sometimes I had to toss a coin to make the choice. I didn't mind. Washington was far away, with the gray-haired man behind the desk, and the recognition room full of pictures of unpleasant people it was my duty to do something about if I should happen to bump into them.

The old pickup truck was running well, and it was nice, wild, clean country; and if I got lost I'd just heat a can of beans over the gasoline stove I carried, and crawl into my sleeping bag in the rear, under the weatherproof metal canopy, and find my way in the morning.

I came upon the gate quite abruptly. It was a kind of rustic arch composed of two massive uprights and a long cross timber that sagged slightly in the middle as they always do after they've been up some time. The Double-L brand had been carved into the timber, and in case you were too dumb to figure it out, it was spelled out for you, too: DOUBLE-L RANCH. On one of the uprights was a small, weather-beaten metal sign: Guests.

I turned in. The road wasn't bad, now, in dry weather, but I could imagine it would be a real experience in winter, impassable at times. Coming around a bend, I found myself on an open shoulder of the mountain with a view that merited a photograph-I'd brought a camera along to get some shots of the kids. I got out, and climbed up the hill to snap the picture. I shoved the camera into my hip pocket as I started back down. They've got a new model now that'll feed the baby, walk the dog, and even take pretty good photographs, but somehow then notion of a miniature camera as a portable pocket instrument seems to have got lost along the way. I still like the little old Leica you can carry in your pants.

When I reached the road, the first thing I saw was the horse. It was standing docilely, reins loose and trailing, just an ordinary brown horse with an ordinary stock saddle. It did carry a scabbard for a carbine, not unusual for a ranch. I had time to note that the scabbard was empty. Then the owner of the horse came around the rear of the truck with a Winchester.30-30 in his hands and aimed it at me.

"Put your hands up!" he said.

He was a compact young fellow, I saw, in his early twenties, dressed about like I was in jeans, boots, a work shirt, and a big hat. It's the costume of the country, and I'd changed into it at the motel, not wanting to come to a family reunion looking too much like a dude. Besides, a boot-top makes a handy place to carry a revolver if you don't like holsters-and after all, Beth had called for help. I also had a knife.

"Stop right there!" the kid snapped as I continued walking towards him. He waved the gun-barrel at me. "I told you to put 'em up."

He was talking too much. He wasn't going to shoot. I could see it in his eyes. I was almost close enough to take the gun away and spank him with it. I don't like fool kids who wave those things in my face.

"Peter!" somebody called from up the slope. "Pete, where… 7 Oh, there you are!" There was a little pause, and then, "Why, it's Matt!"

I recognized the voice. It wasn't surprising. I'd lived with it for better than a dozen years, once-pretty good years, at that.

"What in heaven's name…? Pete, what are you doing with that gun?"

There was the sound of a horse coming down the hillside. I put my hands into my pockets deliberately. The boy let the gun-barrel drop. We both turned stiffly to watch Beth approach, letting her horse pick its way in the stilt-legged way they have of going downhill.

She was wearing a light, immaculate, wide-brimmed Stetson with a braided leather cord, a white silk shirt open at the throat, and the kind of high-class, tailored denim pants-I won't insult them by calling them jeans-that are constructed by somebody aware that men and women are shaped differently in the rear. She'd never gone in for sloppy clothes much, I recalled, not even for doing the housework or digging in the garden. She was only a few years younger than I, never mind the exact figure, and she'd had three kids-my kids-but she looked like a slender girl on the back of the big horse.

I stepped forward to hold the animal as she reached us. She looked down at me from the saddle.

"Well, Matt," she murmured. "It seems like a long time, doesn't it?"

"You look like a movie cowgirl in that hat," I said. I jerked my head towards the kid with the carbine. "What's the reception committee for?"

She hesitated, and laughed quickly. "Let me introduce you. Peter Logan, my stepson. Mr. Matthew Helm." I waited, and she said, "Oh… why, we've been having trouble with rustlers, of all things! They'll drive in with a pickup or panel truck and butcher one of our steers and be off with the meat before anybody sees them. When Peter and I saw your truck from up above, we thought it best to investigate… I didn't tell you to use a gun, Pete!" she said to the boy.

Peter Logan said quickly, "Dad said not to take any chances."

She said, "Well, if you'll lead my horse home, I'll drive back with Mr. Helm…" About to dismount, she changed her mind. A gleam of mischief came into her eyes, and she gave me a glance, and spoke to Peter: "On second thought, suppose you lend Mr. Helm your horse. We'll cut back over the ridge and meet the boys while you bring his truck to the ranch."

Young Logan frowned. "Dad said for me not to let you ride anywhere alone."

"But I won't be alone," Beth said, laughing. "I'm sure Mr. Helm will take very good care of me."

I said, "Stick that carbine back in the scabbard, and I'll do my best to protect her from rustlers and outlaws."

The boy gave me a look that indicated he didn't think I was very funny. Then he turned on his heel, strode to the horse, rammed the Winchester into place, and came back leading the animal.