Mad River

by Donald Hamilton

  Cohoon asked, "Who is he, Mr. Westerman?"

  "The General? The man who knows the answer to that is in a fair way to earning himself the reward, which I have just doubled, making it two thousand dollars." Westerman shrugged. "Oh, we know something about him, of course. He's supposed to have come across the border two jumps ahead of the rurales; I guess he'd tried his hand at revolution down there like most of those fellows. That was four years ago; now he's got himself a gang of outlaws—Mexicans and renegade Apaches mostly—and has settled down to live comfortably off the Americanos. He wears a fancy uniform and hides out in the malpais to the north. You know that country; you can see how much chance a posse of citizens has of catching a gang of twenty-thirty armed outlaws in that mess of black rock." Westerman shook his head. "We don't even try any more, as you can see. The last posse got itself pretty badly shot up when it pushed the General a little too hard—he doesn't mind being followed, that's part of the game, but he considers it impolite of us to step on his heels. No, the General himself has become pretty much a natural phenomenon as far as we're concerned, like the weather. The fellow we're really after is the man here in town who supplies him with his information. If we ever find that man, there are going to be a lot of angry citizens ready to stretch his neck in a quick and final way, Cohoon. You might keep that in mind."

  Cohoon said, "If this General's been operating for four years, I've got a pretty good alibi."

  "Maybe. But people aren't very reasonable when they're aroused. If they find a man who passed information to the General today, they aren't going to worry about the fact that he couldn't have done it yesterday."

  "I thank you for the warning, Mr. Westerman," Cohoon said.

  "I gave you another warning, Boyd. There'll be a stage south the day after tomorrow. Be on it, Or find a horse to put under that saddle and head out of here today."

  They looked at each other for a silent moment; then Cohoon ginned and walked off without speaking. There was, after all, no sense in making the older man a present pf his intentions, when keeping quiet might keep trouble off his neck for a day or two longer.

  Ben Swanson greeted him warmly—a tall, bald and bony man who had not changed in appearance in the two decades Cohoon had known him.

  "This is a fine new place I have here, eh?" he said, showing Cohoon around. "Sold my other place to some fool from the east to build a store on. If I don't take his money somebody else get it. Bunch of crazy people all thinking they get rich tomorrow. Pretty soon somebody find silver or gold somewhere else and they all go away. Let them go. I still have my new stables, eh? Like your dad used to say, digging holes in the ground is for rodents, not men." He clapped Cohoon on the shoulder. "Sorry about your dad. He was a fine man. I've got a nice bay gelding back here I'll give you' cheap for his memory, and throw a mule in for nothing."

  "What's wrong with the mule?" Cohoon asked.

  "Everything's wrong with the mule," Swanson said, "It's the meanest damn mule I ever laid eyes on, but what do you care? For nothing you can afford to shoot him when you can't stand his cussedness any longer... "

  It was pleasant to be astride a horse again. Cohoon rode down Main Street at an easy gait, swearing occasionally at the mule, which already showed promise of living up to Swanson's description. As he neared the bank, a woman in a green dress emerged and crossed the street ahead of him, using one hand to control her skirts and the other to maintain her hat upon her head. She paused in the lee of the buildings, and he recognized her, and reined in as he came abreast of the spot. After a moment Nan became aware of him, and looked up, coming to the edge of the boardwalk.

  "You look better on a horse, Cohoon," she said. She reached out a cautious hand. "Do I pat him, or will he bite me? My experience with horses has been limited to a Boston bridle path."

  "The horse is all right, I reckon, but stay clear of the mule; he's supposed to be mean." He hooked a knee over the horn, looking down at her critically. "You're all dressed up for a party," he said.

  She smiled. "The party's over; and your money's in the bank. I dressed up for the occasion, thinking you'd want me to look the part I was playing."

  "Your money," he said.

  "As you wish." She smiled again, a little crookedly. "You'll be pleased to know that the girl was there when I made the deposit. I wouldn't have thought that fragile blonde type would appeal to you; but then, as I said this morning, I've made mistakes about men before. She would have loved to scratch my eyes out. Her father looked as if he'd swallowed a bad egg. It's too bad you couldn't have watched, Cohoon, since you're paying high for the revenge."

  He said, "Aren't you jumping to conclusions, ma'am?"

  "Am I?" She shook her head quickly. "I don't think so. You could just have refused the money, couldn't you? Or, having taken it, you could have given it to the church, if you couldn't bring yourself to spend it. Or thrown it into the arroyo. But you wanted to strike back at her, to hurt her, so you handed it to me, knowing the conclusions she would draw when she heard of it. Well, you can feel satisfied. She's thinking just what you wanted her to think, and no one can blame her. Why else would a man toss such a pack of bank notes to a dance-hall entertainer? So I feel that I have earned my pay, Cohoon. It was a little distasteful, but a girl in my position can't afford to be choosy. Any time you have more money to dispose of in the same way, why, drop around. I'll be glad to handle it for you."

  There was anger and some contempt in her voice; and he knew a quick regret: he had repaid her badly for her kindness of the night before. Giving her the money had been an impulsive gesture; superficially he had meant no harm, but she had read accurately the deeper, ugly motives of which he had hardly been aware.

  "I'm sorry, ma'am," he said. "I apologize. To you. Not to her."

  After a moment, she smiled. "You seem to have a habit of going off half-cocked, as they say out here, don't you, Cohoon? And please stop calling me ma'am; I've asked you that before. .. Well, I think we've given the natives enough to talk about for one morning, and I've got to run over a few songs with the piano player. Drop in and hear them when you get back to town."

  He raised his hat as she turned away; and watched her move down the street serenely, as if unconscious of the interested and critical glances that •followed her. She turned right at Creek Lane. He kicked his horse into motion and rode down as far as Van Houck's, where he packed his outfit on the reluctant mule. Leaving the animals there, he walked across the street to the hotel, to pick up the belongings in his room. When he stopped at the desk on his way out, the clerk was speaking to a young man in eastern clothes, rather dusty from traveling.

  "No, sir," the clerk said, "we have no lady of that description staying here. What did you say the name was?"

  "Wyatt," the young man said. "Miss Nancy Wyatt, I'm very anxious to get in touch with her; in fact I rode an empty ore wagon up rather than wait for the next stagecoach. You'd know her if you saw her; she's a rather striking .... well, you'd know her. I've traced her clear from San Francisco... "

  He broke off, becoming aware of Cohoon's presence. The clerk looked up.

  "Oh, Mr. Cohoon," he said, and moved over to take care of the bill. The transaction finished, Cohoon hesitated for a moment, looking at the easterner, who looked pale and downy and very young. After five years in jail, Cohoon had discovered, every man his own age looked callow and immature; and back east they grew up even more slowly than they did out here. This was a boy; a boy with romantic notions who had apparently followed a dream several thousand miles west around the continent to San Francisco, and another thousand miles back south and east again to Arizona territory and, after all that traveling, his dream still bright, had been unable to wait an extra day or two for the stage but had jumped aboard the first ore wagon headed north. Cohoon turned on his heel and walked away. He had gone a long way for a dream once, himself, and had discovered for himself what dreams were worth. Besides, the business of playing Good Samaritan had proved fairly unprofitabl
e to date.

  9

  WILLIAM BLACK studied his visitor without enthusiasm: these easterners had notions about the law and its enforcement that were far removed from western realities.

  He said, "Sit down, Mr. James. What's the trouble?"

  The young man sat down stiffly and placed his hat on his lap. "Well," he said, "the clerk over at the hotel said you might be able to help me, Marshal. I'm 'looking for a girl." Black laughed briefly. "That's a common complaint, Mr. James. You'd be surprised how many miners 'come into this town of a Saturday night with the same. . . " His visitor showed no trace of a smile; and the marshal checked himself, a little annoyed at the failure of his attempt at humor, particularly since he was aware that the subject was nothing for decent men to joke about. "The young lady's name?" he said curtly.

  "Wyatt," said the boy from the east. "Nancy Wyatt."

  "Can you give me a description?"

  "Why, yes. She's fairly tall, slender, dark-haired and e and beautiful."

  "Color of eyes?"

  "Gray," James said. "Greenish gray."

  "Would you have a picture of her, Mr. James?"

  "Why, yes," said James, and produced a small, flat leather case which, opened, revealed a photographic print, ovally framed. "This was taken three years ago," he said. "We we were about to be married."

  Black turned the picture around and studied it for a moment. A hint of recognition stirred in his mind.

  "You were to be married?" he said after a moment. "Then I presume this is not a criminal matter, merely a personal one. The young lady hasn't committed any—"

  "Of course not!"

  "Then," the marshal said, "the matter is somewhat outside my jurisdiction, Mr. James. However—"

  "Yes?"

  "Leaving the law out of it," Black said, "I can offer some advice, which you are free to take or leave as you see fit."

  "Yes?"

  "If I were you, Mr. James," Black said evenly, "I would go back home."

  The youth looked up quickly, startled. He said, "You do know something about Nancy! You've seen her!"

  Black put his fingernail against the photograph and pushed it gently across the desk. "You say this picture was made three years ago. I reckon the young lady disappeared from wherever she lived—"

  "Boston."

  "—disappeared from Boston about that time?"

  "It was about six months later, three days before the .. James checked himself.

  Black said, "Two and a half years. People can change in two and a half years, Mr. James."

  James got to his feet abruptly. "I don't know what you're trying to say, and I don't care to hear it! Where is she, Marshal? All I want to know is where to find her!"

  Black stared across the desk; he would, he told himself, have liked to spare the youth in front of him—actually no younger than himself—but it would have been a mistaken kindness.

  "I can't be sure from the picture, Mr. James," he said. "However, a young lady of that general description did arrive on the stagecoach yesterday, in the company of an unsavory character named Cohoon, just freed after serving a five-year term in the Territorial Prison for armed robbery."

  James winced. "Cohoon?" he said. "I've heard that name. Is he about my own size, n lean, dark-haired fellow with a pale complexion? He came through the hotel lobby—"

  "That's the man. One of our picturesque Western characters, Mm James; and might add, a thoroughly unpleasant and dangerous person despite his mild looks. That's why I suggested it might be better if you returned home."

  "And you suggest that Nancy is ... is associated with this badman?"

  "She arrived in town with him," Black said. "He took her directly to one of our more colorful local establishments, where she is now working as entertainer. She lives in a house off Creek Lane, alone except for a Mexican woman—and Mr. Cohoon, when he chooses to take advantage of her hospitality, as he did last night."

  "You're lying!" James cried.

  Black leaned forward slightly. "Mr. James, out here it's not considered polite to question another man's truthfulness. You asked for information and I'm giving it to you. That Cohoon spent the night in the Montoya girl's house is a fact which I can bring witnesses to prove."

  "Montoya?" James said. "Is that what she calls herself?" "Nan Montoya. Do you recognize the name? She also, I'm given to understand, at the first opportunity deposited in the bank a large sum of money which she seems to have received from him—I'm trying to learn the source of that money. It seems quite a coincidence that we should have a robbery in town within four hours of Mr. Cohoon's arrival, and that his girl should make a trip to the bank the following morning. .. What did you say, Mr. James?"

  James licked his lips. "Just tell me where to find her," he whispered.

  Black told him, and watched him retrieve his photograph and move toward the door with a slight feeling of shame; perhaps he had let his dislike of Cohoon cause him to paint the picture too black. Yet to the best of his knowledge he had said nothing that was not true—and it was odd that the girl should have opened a bank account this morning, right after Cohoon had claimed to be so broke that he had to buy his saddle on credit....

  10

  THE ROAD LED across the greasewood plains in a northwesterly direction from Sombrero, past the great balanced rock that had given the town its name. There was no real need, on horseback, to follow the road, and it added some distance to the journey, but Cohoon was in no hurry, and he felt a desire, perhaps sentimental, to pass all the landmarks of his boyhood in their proper order. Four miles out of town, he paused at the junction with the old road from the south.

  This had once been the main trail into this part of the country, crossing the rugged Candelaria Mountains by way of Coyote Pass, and the river at Yellow Ford. But it had never been easy for wheeled vehicles, and when John Black—whose drinking had not dulled a shrewd eye for business—had put in his ferry thirty miles to the east, traffic had shifted in that direction, swinging around the shoulder of the Candelarias, and altogether avoiding the ancient ford with its quicksands and frequent high water. Since that time, the old trail over the mountain had fallen into disuse, and the portion of it between the Diamond C and this point had served only to help the Cohoons and their riders on the way to town, saving them a long ride east across the ranch to the new road and a toll at Black's Ferry.

  Under the circumstances, there should have been no traffic over it of any significance for the past two years, and perhaps there had not been. The recent hoofprints could indicate only a few casual travelers or prospectors. The most interesting signs in the dusty ground were quite old. Yet at some time since he had last been over this road, Cohoon saw, heavy wagons had used it for a considerable period of time, long enough to cut deep ruts that wind and sand—and the scant rain of this country—had not yet obliterated. The marks were deeper and wider than any ranch vehicle would leave, no matter how heavily loaded. Cohoon frowned thoughtfully, dismounted, and walked a little distance along the tracks, stopping to pick up a chunk of gray granitic rock that had obviously neither been broken nor brought here by nature. It looked to his inexpert eye like the rock that formed the core of the Candelarias, exposed on the higher slopes: but it contained veins of a darker material.

  Cohoon tossed the rock aside; he knew little about prospecting and mining. In fact, he tended to share his father's notion that there was something faintly indecent about ripping the earth apart for the sake of an inanimate and relatively useless metal. Not that his father had sneered at gold or silver as a medium of exchange; he had simply had an old-fashioned notion that riches should be earned, not found. ... In any case it seemed that, at some time since Cohoon had gone to prison five years ago, ore had been hauled this way, presumably from a mine on the near north slopes of the Candelarias, since the road led nowhere else that an ore wagon could go. At a more recent date, but still not yesterday, the traffic had stopped, at least by this route.

  It was hot in the sun; C
ohoon wiped out the band of his hat and took a sparing drink from the water bottle before swinging into the saddle again. He saw more scattered ore fragments along the deeply cut ruts as he rode on to the south. They disturbed him, as did the changed aspect of the road; even here, it seemed, nothing had remained the same. Only the red and orange mesas to the west and the gray-green mountains ahead looked as he remembered them.

  He reached the river a little before noon and made a small fire. It was pleasant to be alone, responsible to no one but himself. After eating, he took the broken Henry rifle from his bedroll, and a strip of rawhide, which he soaked until it was soft and flexible, after which he used it to splice the stock carefully. The rawhide, drying, would shrink up tight.

  He cleaned the gun—dusty from two years of idleness— checked the action, loaded the weapon, and shoved it into the saddle scabbard, after which he packed up again, and headed across the ford. The threatening rumble of the rapids upstream reached him clearly. Looking to the left, he could see the yellow torrent pouring out of the canyon, spreading out into shallows that looked innocent enough—but near the south bank of the ford he passed the remnants of a large ore wagon that had bogged down in one of the numerous shifting potholes that had always plagued this crossing. It seemed a strange thing: here, where water was more precious than silver and gold, this river had never been anything but a menace and an obstruction.

  To the south, the road climbed upward through a steep canyon that cut back through the yellow cliffs. Halfway up, Cohoon checked his horse; below him on the canyon floor— if the bottom of the narrow cleft could be so called—was the wreckage of a wagon that had apparently gone out of control on the grade. He could make out the dried, skeletal carcasses of the mules. Perhaps the driver was down there too, or perhaps he had jumped in time. Somebody must have wanted silver badly, Cohoon reflected, to try hauling it out this way. It had always been a bad enough trip with a buckboard, as he recalled, let alone with a wagon bearing several tons of ore.