McKay took a long breath and stepped back. He unbuckled the gun bell from his waist, fastened the buckle again and hung the weapon on a post of the nearby hitching rack. The major had turned in the saddle now to look at him.
McKay stepped away from the revolver. “This is a damn-fool expedition, sir,” he said evenly. “I will not countenance it by coming along. Furthermore, I must ask you not to use my name to justify your actions. If you ride on the Hanneseys, you do so for your own reasons, not on account of anything that has happened to me.” He glanced at the buckskin horse. “As for this gentle horse Mr. Leech has provided for me, it looks so tired I’d hate to exhaust it further.”
He caught a glimpse of Patricia’s blue dress in the doorway as he turned away, but she was not in sight when he reached the house.
Rufus Hannesey came out on the sagging porch of his house and stood for a moment blinking at the sunlight, a big man whose red beard was edged with white that made the tobacco stains more noticeable than they would otherwise have been. Blanco Canyon was already noisy with children and dogs. Surrounded by high, protecting walls of white rock, it was a fortress of a place. Hannesey smiled grimly at the thought, and stopped smiling abruptly. He snapped his fingers, and a boy of eight playing nearby looked around.
“Young Rufus around?” he asked the kid.
“You want him?” the boy asked.
“I want him.”
The boy scrambled to his feet and ran off, his shaggy red hair shining in the sunlight. Hannesey stood looking out at the cluster of ramshackle buildings set on a clay slope from which all signs of vegetation had long since been worn away. Set in spectacular surroundings as it was, it nevertheless looked a good deal like the miserable place in the mountains where he had been born. A man could travel a thousand miles, but he could never leave himself behind. He knew that now. There had been a time when he had thought he might be able to change, with a girl’s help.
He reached around and scratched the old whip scars that still itched occasionally, as they had done while healing. You’re trash, Hannesey, he told himself gently, never forget that; you were born trash and you’ll die trash. It was what they had told him that day. The men who had whipped him were dead—the father and the brothers. He could still recall the sweet cracking sound of the long squirrel rifle. They were used to whipping slaves who did not come back with guns. He had lain in the bushes afterward, his back throbbing, watching the girl come running down from the big house. She had fallen twice in her frantic, despairing haste, going to her knees at last among the three sprawled forms, her dark hair wild about her face and her fine dress tom. He had slipped away then. His mistake had been in trying to bridge the gap between them. It was a mistake he had never made again.
“I didn’t tell you to go beating up strangers, young Rufus,” he said as Buck Hannesey stepped up to the porch. “The boys had their business in town all finished. Who told you to take them back and make trouble?”
Buck’s face looked surprised. “Hell, I just mussed up the dude a little. Where was the harm in that? You want to keep pushing at them, don’t you?”
“Not twice in one day, you fool!” Hannesey swung about to face his son. “That’s a stupid, hotheaded old man up there at Ladder. I can play him like a fiddle. I’ve let him come busting in here twice; he thinks there’s nothing to it. Him and that cocky foreman of his think they’ve got the Hanneseys buffaloed. Any time they get mad enough they’ll come riding again, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, to teach us good manners. Do you understand? And if they come today. I’m going to take the skin off your behind in little strips, boy, because I’m not quite ready for them yet. I’ll say how hard you push and how often, so keep that damn pistol holstered until I tell you to use it, hear? You might have killed the dude; how’d you know how thick his skull was? If he’d died, I’d have ridden you over to Las Lomas myself and turned you over to the sheriff for murder. You got that clear now or you want I should say it again?”
Buck started to speak rebelliously, but checked himself. “It’s clear.” he said in a sullen voice.
Hannesey laughed, and pushed at his son’s shoulder with his fist. “Don’t waste your time figuring how you’re going to lick me, boy. Save it for the others; you’ll be needing it soon . . . How’re you making out with your schoolmarm?” He saw the tightening of the younger man’s jaw muscles, and said, “No, and you ain’t ever going to make out with her, either.”
“What do you mean?” Buck demanded quickly.
“I mean,” his father said, “that you’ve been a fool, and so have I. There was a time I thought maybe you had a chance; after all, the Maragons had no family background to speak of; the old man just came out here and made his place with his fists and his gun, just like a lot of other men. But the girl’s had education, and she’s run with the Terrills, and it’s rubbed off on her. She’s been stringing you along to protect them. As you get older you’ll learn that these fine, handsome people with lots of money, everybody protects them. Trash like us, we’ve got to protect ourselves.”
The younger man looked up, and his eyes were dangerous. “If you’re right——”
“No,” Hannesey said, “you’re going to keep your hands off the schoolmarm, young Rufus, until I say so. Just string her along; act smooth and nice. We’re going to have use for that girl. Don’t scare her. This ain’t much of a country, but us Hanneseys are going to run it, all of it. When the time comes. I’ll see that you collect whatever you figure the wench owes you. Legally, boy, legally. If you behave yourself and do like I say. Now send the boys back into the breaks and see how many of those bashful gents hiding out from the law you can round up. Tell them they’ve been living off my beef long enough; I’d like a little help in return. Say, day after tomorrow. And there’s a gent named Beemis I’d like you to locate particularly; he’ll be wearing a black suit and there’ll be a Bible on him somewhere and a bottle in his fist, if he’s sober enough to hold it.”
McKay emerged from his room to find the house empty. He walked around the long, sprawling house to find what he was looking for: the corrals.
In one fenced area a dozen horses stood peacefully half dozing in the sun. McKay walked over to the fence and stood looking at the penned animals with no great fondness.
A movement beside him made him turn to see an old man who had come up silently from the nearby barn. He wore a large straw hat and had a leathery brown face. There was no gray in his hair or in his fierce, sweeping mustache.
“Señor?” he said.
“I don’t suppose the major’s back yet,” McKay said. “My local geography’s a little shaky, but I’d imagine it would be an all-day ride down to the Hannesey place and back.”
The man shook his head. “They did not go south, Señor. They had some talk; they waited for the Señorita to dress and join them; they rode north to look at the herd at Caballo Springs.”
“I see,” McKay said. “Well, that’s something accomplished, anyway. Nobody gets shot today. Each day should see some small accomplishment, shouldn’t it?”
“I do not understand, Señor.”
“It’s probably just as well.” He swung around to look at the corral again. “The yellowish horse,” he said. “The buckskin over in the corner. Has it got a name?”
“They call it Old Thunder, Señor.”
“And what do they call you?”
“Ramon, Señor. Ramon Gutierrez.”
“Well, Ramon,” McKay said, “I’m going to ask a favor of you. Just between you and me. I want you to help me be a damn fool. I want you to put a saddle on that beast over there, just as a personal favor. Can you do it alone or do you need help to hold him?”
The old Mexican studied McKay for a lengthy moment. “You did not ride this horse this morning, Señor McKay,” he said quietly.
“You know that? I suppose everybody on the place does. Well, I did not wish to ride this horse this morning and get thrown off it for Señor Leech’s satisfaction, Ramon.
But I wish to ride it this afternoon and gel thrown off it for my own satisfaction.”
“I will saddle the horse,” the old man said. “A word of advice. Señor McKay, It would be well to change. You might get those fine clothes dirty.”
McKay grinned briefly. “I might break my fine neck too. If I do, I’ll deserve it . . . All right, if you can scare up an old shirt and a pair of trousers for me, I’ll change in the barn while you’re saddling the brute. But let’s hurry it up, Ramon.”
When he came out of the barn, McKay climbed through the bars of the fence.
“Any further advice will be appreciated, Ramon,” he said.
The Mexican did not look around. “One man cannot tell another how to make love to a reluctant woman or how to ride an unwilling horse, Señor.” He pulled the cinches light, tested them carefully and stepped back. “It is not a man-killing horse,” he said. “It will not bite or trample you. But there are few on this ranch who have ridden it. Steve Leech. The major——”
McKay said dryly, stepping forward, “Well, I hope the yellow devil gives me time to find the other stirrup. Not that I expect it to do me much good . . . All right, cast off. I’m aboard. Giddap, Dobbin.”
The animal laid its ears back and did not move. McKay was aware that Ramon had climbed the fence and was sitting on the top rail rolling a cigarette. McKay slapped at his mount with the reins and kicked it in the flank. There was no response from the horse. He started to kick a second time. Just as he had his heels out, with no grip on the saddle whatsoever, the animal exploded beneath him, tossing him up and aside. He landed on his shoulder in the dust.
Picking himself up, he glanced at Ramon, who had put his tobacco away and was now licking the cigarette paper and forming the tube between his fingers, apparently absorbed in the task. McKay spat the dust out of his mouth and went over to the buckskin horse, picked up the trailing reins, put a foot in the stirrup and swung himself up. This time the animal gave him no time at all, but humped itself up in the middle before he had fully reached the saddle. Clinging to the saddle horn, which seemed legitimate since he had never released it, he weathered the first jump. He tried for the off stirrup and missed. The second eruption threw him further off balance, and he let himself go, pushed clear, and hit the ground rolling.
Ramon had struck a match and was lighting his peculiarly shaped cigarette. McKay wiped his hands on his trousers and walked up to the horse again. It was getting warmed up now, and it stepped around a little, nervously, while he was mounting, but let him get fully astride with his feet in both stirrups before it went into action. For a space of seconds he managed to keep his balance despite the fact that his contacts with the saddle were brief and violent; then a number of things, none identifiable, happened at once, and he went flying over the buckskin’s head and struck the earth so hard that it was some time before he could breathe properly. When he got to his feet, Ramon was holding Old Thunder.
“That’s enough, señor,” the old man said. “The major will hold me responsible if you get hurt.”
McKay said, “L came out here to ride that brute. I’m a stubborn man, Ramon. Just hang onto him long enough to let me get squared away topside——”
“But——”
McKay drew a deep breath and looked directly at the older man. “I don’t say it as an order, Ramon. I still ask it as a favor. I’ve got to do this one stupid thing, don’t you see? For myself. So that when I’m asked to do other stupid things of more importance, I’ll have the good sense to refuse.”
The Mexican hesitated and nodded. McKay walked around him, put his foot in the stirrup and reached for the saddle horn for the fourth time . . . Later, he could never remember how many more times he went through the same motions. It became a kind of grim and deadly and endless rhythm, so that when the end came it caught him by surprise. He found himself sitting peacefully on the back of a sweating horse that was trotting around the corral in a docile fashion. He checked it and dismounted. Ramon came forward to take the reins.
McKay found it difficult to walk straight to the pump in the yard. He concentrated on the tin dipper, first rinsing it out, then filling it with water and drinking deeply. He felt dazed and shaken and very dirty, and he had no particular sense of satisfaction. Well, he thought wryly, that’s over. He pulled off the remains of the borrowed shirt, soaked the cloth with water and began to clean himself.
“I owe you a shirt,” he said as Ramon came up. He glanced down at himself. “A pair of pants, too, I guess.”
“It is of no importance,” the Mexican said. “You are a very stubborn man, Señor McKay. Here, let me assist you.”
He worked the pump while McKay washed. The cold water was refreshing, and the distance from the pump to the barn was easier to negotiate than the distance from the corral to the pump had been. Dressed in his own clothes again, McKay returned to where the old man was hanging up the saddle.
“This is just between us,” he said.
Ramon looked around. “The señorita would like to know,” he said. “She would be pleased.”
McKay said, “The señorita is presumably not marrying me for my horsemanship. And I didn’t do it to impress the señorita or anybody else. In fact, right now I couldn’t tell you exactly why I did it. Which is all the more reason for keeping it quiet.”
“Very well, señor.”
“And now, if I can trouble you for one more favor,” McKay said, “will you throw that saddle on a horse that doesn’t object to me quite so vigorously, and get me a blanket, a little food and a bottle of water, and draw me an approximate map of this country.”
“You’re going for a ride, Señor McKay? I’ll guide you.”
“I’m going for a ride alone,” McKay said. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate the offer, though. And please restrain my host from turning the country upside down looking for me if I’m not back by this evening. I’ve found my way home across some fairly large oceans; with a little luck, I think I can manage to survive Texas too.”
He awoke with the sun on his face and, after a little, sat up cautiously. The movement was just as painful as he had expected it to be after the bruising experiences of the past two days. He yawned and sat cross-legged on the blanket, looking around at the wide landscape sloping down toward the river to the east.
He looked for his horse, a small stocky beast colored somewhere between black and brown. It was grazing peacefully where he had left it, picketed a little below him. McKay drew on his boots, gritting his teeth as various abused muscles protested the effort, and walked down to the animal. Walking was no fun, but he decided that he had suffered no permanent damage. He patted the horse and spoke to it, which was, he admitted to himself, an advantage of having one around. He walked down to the river and washed his face and ran a comb through his hair. Now that some of the soreness was working out of him, he was aware of a sense of satisfaction; this reminded him of a singlehanded cruise he had taken down Chesapeake Bay once, as a boy. Somehow the things you accomplished alone always had a little more value than the things you accomplished with the help and companionship of other men.
Returning to the saddle and blanket up the slope, he sat down to eat the food that Ramon had supplied. He had been too tired and bruised to eat the night before; upon reaching this spot—far enough from the ranch so that they should have trouble finding him in the dark if they came looking—he had simply taken care of the horse according to the instructions given him by Ramon, and rolled up in the blanket and gone to sleep before the sun had fully set. This had been one of his reasons for riding away; to give himself a night alone out here; you might say, to get fully acquainted with himself in these unfamiliar surroundings.
Now he ate hungrily of the starchy and highly seasoned foods the Mexican had packed into the saddlebags. He drank sparingly out of the bottle, not knowing how long it would be before he found clear water again. He rose and went down to the horse, watered it, brought it back up the hill and saddled it, and fastened the
blanket and saddlebags in place.
Before mounting, he stood for a while looking carefully around; then he took a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and studied the map he had drawn with Ramon’s assistance. The main co-ordinates to keep in mind, he reflected, were the river, running approximately north and south, and the stage road, running approximately east and west. As long as you remembered in which of the four quadrants you were located, you could hardly get lost. He took out a small pocket compass attached to his belt by a lanyard, opened the case, and, after orienting the chart according to the magnetic needle, fixed upon a suitable landmark in the direction he wanted to go. He mounted and rode off in that direction.
It was nearly noon when he reached the spot. He turned east along the road, and soon found the river again, where he let the horse drink and finished the water in the bottle. He refilled the bottle with river water; if an emergency should dictate its use, a little sediment wouldn’t matter. He had now completed half the circuit he had set himself; it remained only to see what he had come here to see and return up the east bank of the river to the ranch.
He forded the stream, therefore—shallow and fairly wide at this point—and continued eastward for about a mile, here taking an old road, apparently little used of late, that led northward. Half an hour of riding brought him over a rise into a green valley where the road went through a gate, open, into which was burned a cabalistic symbol resembling a Greek letter reversed. He produced his map, checked his position, and decided that he was looking at the Maragon Lazy M brand.
He looked around. This, then, was the valley of Big Muddy Creek, desired by both Major Terrill and Rufus Hannesey. It seemed like a desirable place, at that, and deserving of a prettier name. He let the horse carry him forward into the shade of the big cottonwoods; they splashed through the creek and came out of the bottom into the yard of the ranch house itself—a plain, low, log building surrounded by trees. There was a pump at one side of the house. McKay rode up to this, dismounted, emptied the river water out of his bottle and replaced it with water from the well. Then he realized abruptly that the pump had not required priming, as would have been expected at a deserted house; in fact, the spout had been wet. He started to look around, but a single small sound that he recognized made him stand perfectly still. Even a man relatively unfamiliar with firearms had, he discovered, no trouble at all in identifying the sound of a rifle being cocked.
Ambush at Blanco Canyon Page 4