Mad River

by Donald Hamilton

  He started to ride on, but checked himself and dismounted instead, tying the animals in the shadow of the overhanging cliff. Then he moved out to the edge of the road, from which he could look straight down the canyon to the ford. He squatted there in the sunshine, absently forming a cigarette with his fingers, lighting and smoking it. Presently he saw a rider, followed by, two others, come down to the river from the north and make the crossing. At the distance it was hard to tell with certainty, but he thought the man in the lead had a beard. He remembered that a bearded man had tried to pick a fight with him within half an hour of his arrival in Sombrero. According to Nan Montoya, a bearded man identified by Miss Bessie as an employee of Westerman had been stalking him in the Double Eagle later the same evening, while he had been busy getting drunk. Of course, this was by no means a clean-shaven country; and it could be merely a coincidence that a bewhiskered individual was coming up the road behind him now....

  He walked over to his horse, and lifted the rifle out of the scabbard far enough to examine the splice he had made; it looked strong enough to stand the shock of recoil should shooting become necessary. He pushed the gun back into place, with some reluctance: this was a fine place for an ambush, and considerations of strategy indicated that it might be well to reduce the odds against him here, rather than fight in a less advantageous place later on. Yet the fact was that he could not afford to fight. A man with a prison record did not dare to kill; and any fighting in which guns were involved entailed the risk of killing no matter how carefully the shooting was done.

  He dropped his cigarette, trod it out, and mounted, feeling a certain bitterness at the circumstances that would not let him make this pilgrimage in peace—but it had been a sentimental idea, after all, and he rode on at a faster pace. At the top, however, he reined in without conscious thought. He had almost forgotten the view that would greet him here; or perhaps he had been afraid to remember, afraid that this, too, would have changed. But it had not changed; and he sat for a space of minutes looking at the rolling grasslands ahead, sweeping up like a golden wave—tinged with the green of spring—toward the formidable wall of the Candelarias, twenty miles to the south.

  It was a kind of homecoming, and he could see it all clearly in his mind, even the parts that were beyond the immediate range of his vision. •The Grant was roughly rectangular in shape, bounded on the north by the deep and winding canyon of the river and its adjoining badlands, on the south by the mountains, and on east and west by the new road and the old. Now that there was no longer a question of a ferry toll, you could take either road north to Sombrero and beyond. The choice would depend mainly on which end of the Grant you happened to start from. Going south, however, you would be well advised to ride across to pick up the new road, even from this end of the Grant, unless you had a sure-footed horse and enjoyed the rough going over the Candelarias.

  It was a good location, Cohoon reflected, and it would become better as the country became more settled, and the land itself was good. Presently he cleared his throat, and spoke aloud, although there was no one to hear.

  "Well," he said, "well, I reckon it looks like we've still got the grass. Now let's see if there's any stock left to feed on it." Suddenly eager to have this over with, he kicked the horse into motion and slashed at the recalcitrant mule, heading for home. When he reached it, the ranch house looked like any of the adobe ruins that dotted this country, marking places where people had once lived. The massive, blackened walls were still standing; you could see that it had been a somewhat larger and more elaborate house than the average—once it had been the hacienda of the Candelarias, the original owners of the Grant.

  Cohoon stopped in the weed-grown yard, but did not dismount; curiously, the destruction before him meant nothing in that moment. A house was nothing without the people, and he had already resigned himself to the people being gone. It was not, after all, as if he was bringing a bride home today. . . . He spat, as if to dispose of the unwanted thought, and rode slowly ahead. With the new bridge in, he told himself, there was no longer any reason for living at this end of the Grant: all that was important here was the water tank, which would have to be cleaned out. For the cabin he had in mind, there was a location over to the east by Willow Spring that was more suitable in every respect for a ranch head. quarters.

  A sound in the brush nearby brought him around with a start, to see a cow and calf break cover like deer and head up the slope away from him. On an impulse, he dropped the mule's lead rope and headed after them, cutting the horse hard for a burst of speed that brought him alongside the cow. He looked for the brand, and it was there.

  It gave him a strange feeling of release to see it; and he knew that he was home after being away too long. A man tended to lose his bearings, too long away from home. Too many houses and people were confusing. You had to come back and see your own grass stretching as far as you could see, and your own brand on the side of a healthy animal, to know where you belonged.

  He checked the horse, letting the cow pull ahead. It disappeared over the ridge, the calf following. He watched them go, and so became aware of the small cloud of dust that hung against the Candelaria foothills, moving slowly to the left. He studied it for about a minute, turned back and recaptured the mule after a brief chase, and headed toward the mountains at a deliberate jog trot. As the country opened up to him again, on the other side of the ridge above the burned-out ranch, he saw the new road where there had been no road before, and the two heavily laden ore wagons lumbering steadily eastward. Presently he was close enough to read the markings on their sides: Lucky Seven Mining Co.

  The picture was suddenly quite clear in his mind. His father would never have given permission to haul ore across the Grant, certainly not to any company belonging to Paul Westerman. Therefore, while Ward Cohoon was alive, the ore could not be hauled directly to the new road south; Westerman's drivers had been forced to make a detour north first by way of Yellow Ford and Sombrero with the loss of mules and equipment and more than two days of time. Then Ward and Jonathan Cohoon had died, shot down on the same day, and with no one to stop them, the wagons had broken a new, short, and easy road directly to the east, which they were still using. This explained a great many things, including why Paul Westerman had been so eager to have him leave town. But it left one burning question still unanswered: had Westerman merely taken advantage of two murders, or had he caused them? How long do I give him the benefit of the doubt? Cohoon thought grimly. How much doubt is there, anyway?

  The sound of a shot behind him made him look around quickly; three riders were coming over the ridge, separating as they approached. They were still much too far away for a rifle bullet to carry; the shot had been a signal. Cohoon looked ahead, and saw two riders detach themselves from the little caravan on the road, and spur toward him.

  11

  NAN MONTOYA lifted the brief, gaudy dress over her head, drew it whispering down about her, and came out of the smaller room, pausing in the doorway to look with some amusement at the young man who sat on the cot awaiting her. This was the second evening he had called to escort her to Miss Bessie's; he had been here during the day as well, but he still clearly was not resigned to finding her living in such a place. His expression made abundantly clear his opinion of dirt floors, mud walls,- and the old woman crouching by the dead fireplace. He looked up quickly at Nan's appearance. She walked over and presented her back to him.

  "You might as well make yourself useful, Lawrence," she said dryly, "after coming all this way to find me." When, uncomprehending, he did not move she said, "Button me, dearie."

  There was always, nowadays, this compulsion that she could not resist, to make people accept her at her worst; it was easier, simpler, and in a sense more dignified to act out the part they expected of her now than to try desperately to crawl back into the ranks of the respectable, who would not have her anyway. The young man behind her began to fasten up her dress in a gingerly manner.

  "We're not i
n Boston now, Lawrence," she said tartly.

  "But, Nancy," he said, "you can't like it here. This hut ....that place you work ... that awful woman who runs it . . ."

  "Miss Bessie's been kind to me," Nan said. "You should have seen the place where I was working in San Francisco when she hired me and gave me the money to come here."

  "I did," Lawrence James said grimly. "And I understand your natural sense of gratitude and ... and loyalty, but nevertheless you must see that this is no place for you. You belong—"

  "Where?" she asked. "Where do I belong, Lawrence? At home? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

  "Nancy, I know that—"

  "Two years ago," she said, and was still not able to keep her voice from trembling slightly at the memory, "two years ago, after Montoya died, I wrote home for help. I wanted to come home, then."

  "I know," James said, fumbling with the tiny round buttons. "I know, but—"

  "Do you know how long it takes a letter to travel from San Francisco to Boston? Do you know how long it takes the answer to get back? I was sick; I had no money; but I managed to live, counting the months. When the letter came .... when it came, do you know what it contained, Lawrence?" She drew a long breath. "It contained one sheet of paper, and a line of handwriting. My father's handwriting. He asked me, if I had any decency left, not to hurt him or Mother further by communicating with them again or by using the family name,"

  James said, "I know. The Reverend Mr. Wyatt—"

  "The Reverend Mr. Wyatt has no daughter," the girl said harshly. "She disobeyed his wishes and ceased to exist. That's what he wants, and that's what I want, Lawrence. From now on I'll make my own way, without asking anybody's help." She pulled away from him and walked into the other room, throwing aside the blanket that normally shielded the archway. She stopped in front of the mirror that hung on the far wall of the smaller room, and reached back with both hands for the remaining buttons of her dress. In the mirror she saw him come into the doorway and stop, not wishing to commit the impropriety of entering a lady's bedroom. "I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I'm sorry, Lawrence; I treated you badly, and it was sweet of you to come all this way to find me, but it would have been better if you hadn't. Don't you see I can't possibly go back?"

  "As my wife?" he said. "Not even as my wife, Nancy?"

  She swung around to face him. It was a moment before she spoke. "Do you mean that? Do you still want me—after what I did to you?"

  The young man in the doorway drew a deep breath. "l love you," he said. "That makes it very easy to forgive—"

  "Oh," she said, very softly.

  "What is it?"

  "Nothing," she said. "It's nothing, Lawrence. And it's very sweet of you to forgive me. Now, if you'd hand me that shawl on the bed, I think I'd better get over to the Double Eagle. It's getting late."

  James did not move at once. "What is it, Nancy?" he asked again. "What did I say that was wrong?"

  She smiled, coming forward. "I appreciate your forgiveness," she said, "but I don't think want to live with it for the rest of my life. And it would be a mistake for us to get married, anyway. It would have been a mistake three years ago—even then my ideas used to shock you occasionally, didn't they, Lawrence?—and now it simply wouldn't work, I've seen a lot of things in the past three years, and I've learned a lot, too. It hasn't all been a loss, my dear. I have no intention of returning to Boston to sit in a corner with my hands demurely folded in my lap for the rest of my life. And that's what you'd expect, isn't it? In return for your .forgiveness and all the trouble you've had in finding me again, I would in all fairness be obliged to make you a humble and decorous wife. Well, I can't make that bargain, because I wouldn't be able to keep it. So I think you'd better take the stage tomorrow alone. This is not the place for you, my dear, and I'm certainly not the woman for you. Goodbye, Lawrence."

  She swept the shawl about her shoulders. Lawrence James turned without speaking and walked stiffly across the larger room to pick up his hat; at the door, he turned to look at her where she stood, by intent, framed in the archway in her dance-hall costume, waiting for him to go. When he spoke again, his voice was changed.

  "Don't be a hypocrite in addition to everything else," he said, speaking in an odd, harsh way. "Why bother to try to spare me? Why not just tell me the truth: that you prefer the illicit company of a robber and jailbird to an honorable proposal of marriage?"

  Startled, Nan said blankly, "What in the world do you .... Oh!"

  "Yes," James cried. "I mean your latest protector, the local badman who came to town with you; who shares this place with you. Do you think it's a secret? Do you think I haven't been told? But I was willing to overlook even that; after all, you seem to have a weakness for evil men, don't you, Nancy? First that scoundrel of a Montoya, with whom you ran away on the eve of our marriage, and now this outlaw, and how many in between—"

  "Please go," Nan whispered.

  "I thought there might be a spark of decency left," James shouted. "I thought that back in civilized surroundings, under proper supervision .... but it seems you do not even realize your own position, Nancy."

  "I'm sorry," she breathed. wish you hadn't ... So it was revenge you wanted, after all?"

  He was shocked out of his anger. "Revenge?"

  "Yes. You didn't come here because you loved me, did you, Lawrence? You came all those thousands of mites because you bated me, because I made you ridiculous three years ago. So now you want to drag me home, ail tarnished and bedraggled as I am in your eyes, and turn the joke on those who laughed at you. You want to look big and generous and forgiving at my expense. And what kind of a life did you have in mind for me, Lawrence? How often would I have been reminded of your kindness and my own unworthiness.... Go on, Lawrence. Don't say anything else. Just go." "Oh, I'll go," he cried. "I'll leave you to your badman, if be ever comes back. He's been gone two days, hasn't he? He was warned to leave town. They're saying at the hotel that he won't be back; they're betting money on it. But you'll find somebody else, no doubt..."

  Then he was gone. She stood there long enough to let him reach the corner; then, driven by a sudden urgency she did not allow herself to analyze, she ran out, hurrying toward the Double Eagle, where somebody would know what Lawrence had been talking about.

  12

  THE CLEAR, accurate, and unsentimental voice met Cohoon as he came through the doors of the Double Eagle. He stopped just inside and stood watching Nan Montoya, by the piano at the end of the room, as she finished her ballad—enunciating the unladylike words of the refrain with a careful precision that left no doubt of their meaning. Cohoon moved to the bar during the loud applause that followed, and stood there while she sang a more innocent melody, in the same precise way. He turned to get his drink when she was through; turning again with the glass in his hand, he found her beside him.

  She said, "The betting was five to three you wouldn't be back, Cohoon. You're costing a lot of people money."

  He drained the glass and grinned at her. "Out where I was, ma'am, the odds were five to one."

  She said, a little stiffly, "I have asked you to call me Nan. ... Let's take that table in the corner before you explain that remark. I've been standing up all evening."

  They walked across the room together, Once Cohoon paused briefly, as he saw Francis Paradine with several companions drinking at a table with a couple of Miss Bessie's girls. But the boy did not look up—if, indeed, he was sober enough to recognize faces—and Cohoon moved on to join Nan, who had signaled a barman to bring a bottle to the table. Seated, they regarded each other for a moment in an appraising way, as if years instead of days had passed since their last meeting.

  She asked, "What did you mean about the odds being five to one where you were?"

  "Why," he said, laughing, "there were that many fellows chasing after me."

  "Westerman's men?"

  He glanced at her quickly. "You keep your ears open, don't you, ma'am ... I mean, Nan."


  "They were saying here in town that Mr. Westerman had warned you to leave this part of the country. It seems he considers you responsible for the death of his son who died in the holdup for which you went to prison." Her glance touched the figure of the boy slumped drunkenly over the table in the center of the room; and her voice was sharper when she spoke again. "You went to prison for the Paradines; do you intend to die for them, too? Mr. Westerman has no real reason to hate you, does he? Instead of letting his men hunt you like a wild animal, why don't you just go to him and tell him who was really his son's partner in that holdup."

  Cohoon grinned, and shook his head. "That hand's been played," he said. "It's a little late to claim a misdeal now, even if it would help, which it wouldn't. I learned a few things while I was gone, Nan, among them that Westerman's motives aren't exactly what they seem—not that they ever were. He always did have the reputation of being a shifty kind of poker player."

  She said, "Well, anyway, you got away." She studied him for a moment, and added, "You look mighty cheerful, for a man who's been riding for his life."

  "Riding anywhere is a pleasure, after Yuma," he said. "And I was born on the Grant, remember; I'd deserve anything that happened to me if I let a handful of saloon hardcases catch me there. I took them straight across the Candelarias and back again; I reckon they're still trying to figure how I got that pony down a hundred-foot cliff." He shrugged his shoulders, and laughed, a bit embarrassed. "Reckon I sound kind of pleased with myself, for just getting away from a bunch of saddle bums who couldn't track a cow down a muddy road. It's just that . . . well, after being penned up behind bars long enough, a man starts to wonder whether he can still sit a horse or find his way across country the way he used to." He went on quickly, changing the subject: "You look as if our climate was agreeing with you. How are you getting along with Miss Bessie?"