Mad River

by Donald Hamilton

  "Jesusa," she said softly, "Jesusa, can you tell me how to get to—"

  The old woman shook her fist at the locked door, through Which her assailants had recently departed, and embarked upon a stream of imprecations in Spanish that flowed too rapidly for Nan to have deciphered it even had she known all the terms employed.

  "Jesusa!" Nan cried impatiently. "Jesusa, please! Can you get somebody to guide me ?

  Unhearing, the old woman continued to recite her litany of hate, rocking back and forth on the stool by the fireplace. Nan regarded her with wry helplessness, and went quickly into the other room to the open trunk and began to search through its contents heedlessly. She tried not to think of how little she was prepared for the responsibility that had been thrust upon her: the responsibility for a man's life. It had been years since she had mounted a horse; and she knew nothing of this country except what she had seen from the stage. She remembered it as beautiful but rather terrifying; the kind of country in which a lone and inexperienced rider could lose himself without a trace. I'll need water, she thought, a horse, water, a gun, and clear directions. Can I trust Miss Bessie?

  She weighed the risks in her mind as she took from the bottom of the trunk the fashionable green riding habit she had packed away upon the eve of running off to be married. She remembered having had some pretty picture in mind of herself and Montoya riding side by side across their California rancho—not that he had ever claimed to be a rancher, you had to give him credit for that much. Well, Montoya was dead, and whatever she had felt for him was dead with him. Dead men and dead emotions could take care of themselves....

  A peremptory knock on the front door interrupted her. She glanced around quickly, dumped the riding clothes back into the trunk and threw some other garments on top of them, and walked swiftly into the other room, feeling for the revolver that was still heavy in her pocket. Waving Jesusa back, she approached the door, and turned the key in the lock, lefthanded.

  "Now what do you want?" she called as she did so. "Haven't you pestered me enough for one morning ..."

  Thee door swung open under her hand. Instead of Marshal Black or one of his associates, as she had expected, she found herself confronted by a small, fair, bareheaded girl in a blueflowered dress. The two women faced each other in silence for a moment. Nan was startled to note that, in addition to lacking hat or bonnet, her visitor was noticeably disheveled; but the smaller girl's forlorn appearance was not due entirely to the untidiness of her hair and the dust on her garments. Her face was shockingly pale; and her eyes had the pink, swollen look of tears, both shed and unshed.

  "I ... I'm looking for Mrs. Montoya."

  "I'm Mrs. Montoya," Nan said. "You're Claire Paradine. That takes care of the formalities. Come inside, Miss Paradine. You don't want to ruin your reputation by being seen visiting on this street." She stepped aside to let the other pass. "Please lock the door," Claire Paradine said.

  "It's locked."

  The smaller girl turned to look at Nan. "Mrs. Montoya," she said, "Mrs. Montoya, I've got to get a message to Boyd Cohoon. It's a matter of life and death. Can you get in touch with him?"

  Nan studied the pale, pinched face for a moment. "You're the second person to come looking for him within the hour. The first was the marshal. Why should I tell you more than I did him?"

  "I tell you, it's a matter of—"

  "I know," Nan said. "Life and death. What's the message, Miss Paradine?"

  "If the marshal's already been here, you ought to be able to guess!" Claire Paradine cried breathlessly. "I want you to warn Boyd; you've got to warn him! They ... they're like wild animals; you should have seen them at the bank! If they catch him, they'll hang him without a trial. I heard them laughing about it as they rode off. Laughing!" She buried her face in her hands.

  Nan said quietly, "This concern for Cohoon's welfare seems to have come over you very suddenly, Miss Paradine. From what I hear, you showed few signs of it when he first came back. Have you now decided that you want him, after all?"

  "No," the smaller girl gasped, "I mean, I don't know. I mean ... Oh, it isn't that at all. You don't understand. Please, you must warn him. I couldn't stand it if he were killed. I simply couldn't stand it. I'd just die!" She looked up, and her eyes were wide and dark. "You see ... you see I lied about him."

  "You what?" Nan stared at her visitor in growing comprehension. "You were the witness? You identified the murderer as . .." She took a step forward, and Claire Paradine shrank back, crying: "I couldn't help it! They were all around me; they wanted to know if I'd recognized .... anybody. I didn't know what they meant. I thought . They saw I'd seen something."

  "What?" Nan asked.

  Claire Paradine did not look at her. "It was horrible," she cried. "People I'd known all my life, pushing and pulling at me as if they wanted to tear me apart! If it hadn't been for the marshal, I declare I think they'd have ripped the clothes right off my back. I didn't know what they were driving at. I thought . . ."

  "What did you think?" Nan demanded harshly.

  "I couldn't help it, 'I tell you!" Claire Paradine gasped. "They showed me the knife, and it was Boyd's knife. It was! I didn't lie about that. I'd seen his father wearing it often enough. Then they wanted me to say it was Boyd; they told me to say it was Boyd—the man who had thrown it. And he was dark and just about the same size; but I tried to tell them ... They thought I was shielding him. Even the marshal, who'd been protecting me, got angry. . . . I did try to tell them," she whimpered. "I did, but they wouldn't listen. They just kept at me until I said . . . until I said Abruptly she sank to her knees beside the nearby cot and pressed her face against the coarse blanket, weeping.

  Nan looked down grimly; it was no time for anger or hate or even contempt, but she had to fight back the impulse to give the smaller girl a hard kick in the locality that was temptingly vulnerable as she knelt there. She thought of Boyd Cohoon, who had given up a large fraction of his life for this girl—but that was his business. There was a germ of an idea in the thought, however, and she remembered Cohoon's voice, the night before, saying teasingly, She can probably ride better and shoot straighter than you.

  Nan turned the notion over in her mind; it pointed a way out of the dilemma posed by her own poor horsemanship and lack of knowledge of the country. Claire Paradine could undoubtedly find her way to Willow spring unaided; and Cohoon would believe her warning. There was bitterness in that, and Nan spoke to herself sharply: If you go yourself, you'll have nothing but his gratitude, even if you manage to find him in time. If you sent her—if they're alone out there together—who knows? Try it and see.

  She heard herself laugh coldly. "That's a lovely story, and you must be very proud of yourself, Miss Paradine, but why tell me about it?"

  The smaller girl raised her head quickly, "Why, you can Nan laughed again. "I warn him? Not me, dearie. Even warn him—"

  if I was prepared to risk my life out on that godforsaken desert of yours for Boyd Cohoon, I wouldn't interfere with the law. A girl in my profession keeps on the good side of the law, or she starves to death very quickly."

  "The law!" Claire Paradine cried scornfully. "They're nothing but a mob of drunken hoodlums—"

  "Whom you have sent out to hang a man," Nan said. "I'll do this much, and no more! I'll tell you where to find him. He's heading for a place on his ranch called Willow Spring, by way of Black's Ferry. I told the marshal he went the other way, but I doubt if he believed me; however, I figure that takes care of any debt I owe Cohoon. You can warn him or let him be lynched as you please."

  Claire Paradine got slowly to her feet. "Why, I thought you and Boyd ... He gave you money, didn't he?"

  "Other men have given me money, Miss Paradine. Let me worry about my conscience. You just take care of yours. Now get out of here."

  The smaller girl hesitated; then she walked quickly to the door, fought the lock briefly, and ran out. After a moment Nan moved into the open doorway to watch the small, blueclad fig
ure make its hurried way up the street, attracting the attention of the few loafers awake at this hour of the morning—it was a part of town that lived mainly at night.

  Suddenly Claire Paradine came to a halt. She stood for a moment in the center of the street, as if making a decision. She turned on her heel and marched into the space between two buildings—one a small tavern—and came out leading a saddled horse. The long stirrups, and her hampering dress, made it difficult for her to mount, but she reached the saddle on the third try and was off at a gallop, as a man came running out of the tavern to stare in amazement, forgetting the drawn revolver in his hand.

  21

  COLONEL PARADINE stood in the center of the bank floor, facing his questioners with what he hoped looked to them like calm assurance.

  "Yes, sir," he said to a worried face before him, "funds to cover the loss will be here within the week; there's no cause for alarm, none at all. . . Yes, indeed, Mrs. Purvis," he said, "all depositors will be paid in full if they so wish. What is it, sir?"

  A big man in dusty range clothing had pushed through the knot of people. This individual spoke curtly: "Your name's Paradine?"

  "I'm Colonel Paradine, yes. What can I do for you?"

  "You owe me a horse," the stranger said.

  The Colonel frowned. "If you'd be so kind as to explain ..."

  "I had him standing in the alley by McCordley's bar, not wishing to leave him in the sun. I heard a noise and stepped to the door; a girl was riding off with him, hell for leather. Had it been a man, I'd have shot him out of the saddle. Being as it was a woman, I didn't. She was small, blonde, wearing a light-blue dress; people tell me she's your daughter. I could make trouble, but I'll settle for the price of the horse and gear."

  Colonel Paradine sensed a stir among the people surrounding him. His calm bearing had partially restored their confidence in him; but it had vanished again with this reminder of the part Claire had played in their common disaster. It still seemed incredible to the Colonel that his daughter should have tried to shield Cohoon, refusing to identify him until shown the incontrovertible evidence of his guilt. She had always been a sensible girl; but now there were even those who, encouraged by her strange behavior, had the temerity to suggest that she had acted as the man's accomplice throughout—after all, it was she who had ordered poor young Fergus to open the vault. And after all this, to steal a horse and ride out of town in such a conspicuous manner—had the girl gone insane? And where was Francis in this terrible hour?

  It seemed to the Colonel as if the whole world had become afflicted with sudden madness, particularly his own family. He drew himself up. "I apologize for my daughter, sir," he said. This was no time to get into an argument; and the stranger was armed and had a hardbitten look about him. Colonel Paradine reached into his pocket, counted Out a sum Of money and, with his inability to resist a fine gesture, added an equal amount to it. "There you are; I think you'll find it adequate."

  The stranger took the money, and made his own count with infuriating deliberation. "Three hundred," he said, and looked up and grinned. "It's a deal, Paradine. At that price, I'd sell you a dozen more, if I had them. Well, give my regards to the young lady. I'll say this for her: she looked better on that pony than I ever did."

  He touched the brim of his hat in a mock salute, and walked off; the crowd let him through, and closed in again, openly hostile now. His magnanimous gesture had been a mistake, the Colonel realized; with their savings in jeopardy, these people did not like to see him casually pay out three hundred dollars for a drifter's broken-down horse and worn-out saddle. It put the thought in their minds that he might have been as careless with their money as he was with his own.

  Their faces frightened him, and he spoke quickly, "As I was saying, your deposits will be repaid to the last cent, even if it takes everything I possess. You have my word on it. Now, if you'll excuse me—"

  For a moment he thought they would refuse to let him go; then they opened a path for him. As he walked away, he heard the murmur of their voices behind him, sullen and suspicious—that was the fault of Claire and her incomprehensible behavior, he thought bitterly. What had the girl been doing in the bank, anyway? If it had not been for her, there would have been no thought of mistrust. He would have had time and privacy, particularly with young Fergus gone, The catastrophe might even have been turned into a blessing of sorts. At least, he could have straightened out the books; with so much money missing, who could ever have found the discrepancies? But now, with everyone , watching him suspiciously, it was out of the question. They would discover his peculations; and shortly they would learn that his promises of repayment Were only empty words....

  He was aware of greeting passersby as he walked, and pausing to speak reassuringly; and he was filled with wonder and admiration for the part of his mind that could still function in the face of ruin. Then he was in the house with the door shut behind him; and it was safe to let his face relax, at last, into lines of exhaustion and despair. He stumbled into the study and fell into his chair and covered his face with his hands. After a while he sat up slowly, as the thought came into his mind that there was only one honorable course for a man to take in such a situation.

  The Colonel's hand found the drawer pull, and located the worn, efficient butt of the big revolver. "The weapon had never been reloaded since its return by Cohoon, but it still held two charges, one more than necessary. The Colonel drew it out, cocked it, raised it, and lowered it again; a shudder went through him. He laid the weapon aside, rose, and walked quickly to the safe in the corner, opened this, and took out a small packet similar to that which he had once given to Cohoon. Looking at it, he regretted that generosity, and even more he regretted the satchel Paul Westerman had returned to his safe, pointing out that it would be inadvisable for the Colonel to make his appearance at the bank, under the circumstances, carrying a bag full of money. Colonel Paradine, being a realist, had no hope of ever seeing that money again; Westerman was not the type to show generosity to a disgraced and broken man who could be of no further use to him. There would be no further loans, and no marriage. The Colonel laid the paper-wrapped packet gently on the desk. It was not a drop to what he owed—not to mention what people would expect him to repay, even if he could not be held legally responsible. Yet it was enough to take him away from this miserable place, west to California perhaps, where an enterprising and intelligent man with a small stake could surely make the fortune he deserved....

  "Where are we going this time?"

  He looked up, startled by the sound of his wife's voice. She was standing on the far side of the desk, fully dressed, watching him.

  "Elinor—"

  She said quietly, "You're in trouble again, aren't you, Roger? Well, which direction do we flee this time? Have you another desert in mind, where we can spend the next twenty years? Or perhaps it's to be a tropical jungle this time." She looked at the packet of bank notes, "How much are you stealing this time, Roger? Whose trust are you betraying this time? Besides mine, I mean?"

  He crouched there, held by the deathly calm of her voice.

  He did not move until she reached for the gun on the desk; and then it was too late.

  The servants came running at the sound of the shot; but they had not reached the door before a second report revived the echoes of the first.

  22

  COHOON HAD followed the road for a while after leaving town the previous night, but he had pulled off it a distance to make camp, and had not bothered to pick it up again in the morning, finding it more pleasant to choose his own way through the hills, aided by instinct and memory. Besides, after a certain number of attempts on his life, a man tended to become wary of streets, roads, and marked trails.

  Riding along at an easy pace, he gave some thought to the various hostile acts committed against him recently. The only enemy whose motives seemed simple and comprehensible was Paul Westerman, an ambitious and ruthless man. Then there was Willie Black, in whom jealousy an
d an old hate were complicated by the self-righteous egotism of the reformed sinner. Then ... but Cohoon carried the analysis no further. He did not want to spoil a pleasant morning by thinking of the Paradines, or old Van Houck, as possible enemies.' There was an ugly pattern here, and it would become clear in due time; nothing would be gained by borrowing trouble in advance.

  The morning was a fine one; there were clouds and perhaps rain over the Candelarias to the south, but here the sun was shining brightly in a cloudless sky. He took pleasure in riding along, self-sufficient and independent; he let his mind wander over the things to be done at the ranch. Spring was getting on; it was time to buckle down and get to work. The wild stock would have to be routed out of the breaks and canyons—after three years the cattle would be hard to drive, and branding them would be no picnic. Then it would be a matter of weeding out the old stuff and judging the quality of what was left. His father had never paid much attention to cattle breeding, Cohoon reflected; to Ward Cohoon, a cow had been a cow. But even before he had gone to prison, Cohoon had heard and read of new strains being introduced farther east; well, if there was money enough to experiment, it would be interesting to see just what kind of scientific beef could be raised in this territory. In any case, he thought wryly, there would be plenty of work to keep a man too busy for brooding over the past or wondering about the future. . .

  It was close to noon when a rise of ground gave him a glimpse of the bridge ahead. He debated stopping for lunch, but his eagerness to reach the Grant was suddenly strong; another hour and a half would bring him to Willow Spring, where there was both shade and water. He rode on, therefore, making his way down toward the river, and struck the road where it leveled off, after its winding course through the hill, to make a straight run for the bridge. The long and narrow span looked untrustworthy to Cohoon's eyes; he thought he could see it sway in the breeze up the canyon. He laughed at his own fears; if it would bear a stagecoach, it would certainly take a horse and rider. Nevertheless, as he rode out onto it, he had to admit that it made him more uneasy than he had ever been on Black's old ferry—still visible below at the foot of the switchback road down the south canyon wall.