"Brother."
"Heard of them . . . like what I heard."
Together they plunged into the work. Cruz and Lewis now worked as a team, and Sackett worked with Riley. The new hand was fast and sure with a rope, and he had three good horses.
The day began at three A. M., when they rolled out in the cold, fired up, ate a fast breakfast, and by daylight usually had a rope on a cow. With the cavvy brought down the trail and supplied by the rustlers from the San Rafael Swell, Riley now had sixty-six horses in his corrals, and they were needed. Each man used three to four horses every day. The horses were 1,000 to 1,150 pounds as a rule, running heavier than Texas cow horses, and they had good, hard hoofs. Whatever shoeing was done the hands did themselves, using a rasp and then tacking on the shoe. No fire was needed, and no time wasted. Where plenty of cattle had been caught up, two men did the roping and two the branding.
Twice, Gaylord Riley came upon tracks on the range, and once he caught a flash of sunlight from field glasses as somebody watched from a butte bordering the basin.
Each night they rode into camp dead tired, rarely returning to the house on the plateau, but camping among the cedars close to the basin and their work.
Strat Spooner rode into Rimrock shortly after nightfall. He rode directly to the Hardcastle saloon and swung down from the saddle. Across the street Sampson McCarty was closing his door, about to lock up for the night. He turned his head at the sound of the horse, and watched Spooner dismount. It had been weeks since he had seen the big gunman in town, and both man and horse looked beat. Standing in the shadows, McCarty watched Spooner as he stepped up on the board walk. The saloon door opened and Hardcastle came out. The two stood talking in low tones.
Across the street there was a slight movement in the shadows, and McCarty strained his eyes to see a bulky figure loitering in front of the store. When the gunman mounted his horse to go on to the livery stable, McCarty saw the man emerge from the shadows and stroll toward the restaurant. It was Sheriff Larsen.
Neither McCarty nor Larsen had been in a position to hear what it was that Spooner had to say, and which Hardcastle was obviously anxious to hear. In that conversation Spooner wasted no time. "Riley's back. Brought in a herd of mixed stuff, Shorthorns and white-faces, less than half of them branded so far. He, has three hands riding for him, Cruz and Lewis and some drifter he picked up. They worked together most of the time, so I think your time is now."
Hardcastle took a handful of coins from his pocket, all of them gold. He handed them to Spooner, then added another. "That's a bonus, Strat. You've done a good job. Now get some sleep."
Sampson McCarty walked on to the restaurant and joined Larsen. "I see Spooner is back in town."
"I see."
"Something's in the wind, Ed. What is it? What's going to happen?"
"Maybe . . . maybe nothing. I do not know."
McCarty knew from previous experience that when Larsen would not talk there was no use trying to get anything from him. He glanced around the room. "I haven't seen young Riley in town lately." "No."
Just then Dan Shattuck opened the door for Marie and they entered the room, speaking to first one and then another. McCarty, who was at heart a romantic, noted the quick look around by Marie, and her evident disappointment.
"Somebody else," he commented to Larsen, "misses our friend Riley."
Larsen did not reply, and McCarty's eyes followed the sheriff's toward Spooner, who was staring at Marie. The expression in his eyes was both insolent and somehow possessive.
Dan Shattuck looked up and Spooner's eyes swung away, but not so quickly that Shattuck did not notice. McCarty saw the rancher's face darken with anger, but at a whispered word from Marie he turned his attention to her.
McCarty reviewed the situation in his mind and liked none of it. News there would be, and he was interested in news, but this situation looked like news . Of a kind he could do without. There were too many elements, too many threads . . . and some of those whom he both liked and respected were sure to be hurt.
Pico entered, and crossed to Shattuck's table and joined him. The big Mexican had been almost a member of Shattuck's family for many years, since long before Marie was born. It was well known in the community that Pico had long considered himself a sort of guardian for Marie.
Shattuck said something to Pico, and Marie seemed to be protesting. Pico's eyes lifted, and across the room they met the eyes of Strat Spooner, but the big gunman merely gave the Mexican a taunting smile and looked away.
McCarty was puzzled over Spooner's change of attitude. He had been around town for some time, but he had always been careful, had avoided contact with the people of the town, and had rarely left Hardcastle's saloon unless on some errand for Hard-castle. Now he seemed almost to invite trouble. Strat Spooner's manner, the whispers of impending trouble for Shattuck, and the mysterious drifters who kept passing through town or reappearing in town worried McCarty. He was a friendly man, and the people of Rimrock he counted as his friends, yet even Larsen, under his placid exterior, was obviously worried.
Larsen had been going about more. He seemed never to sleep, and there were few evenings now when he was not dropping into the restaurant or one of the saloons. He was present, without fail, when Shattuck came into town, though he only watched and said nothing.
Several days passed after this evening in the restaurant, and McCarty was making up his paper. Suddenly a shadow fell across his window, and the door opened. It was Gaylord Riley.
He bought a newspaper, chatted a bit, then stepped outside. What happened then, McCarty observed with interest. Peg Oliver walked by and cut Riley dead. Eyes straight to the front, chin lifted, she walked right by him.
Riley stood there, his mouth opened to speak, but she kept on walking. Astonished, he shuffled the paper in his hands, then turned and walked toward the restaurant.
McCarty hesitated, glanced at the paper before him, and hurriedly took off his apron and his eyeshade. The paper could wait. He had a hunch he was going to learn something. He stepped out on the street, hastily shrugging into his coat.
He was in time to see Riley stopped by Sheriff Larsen, and as he approached he overheard what was said.
"Are you buying cows?"
"When I can find them . . . white-face or Shorthorn."
"I did nodt fink dere was so many aroundt." "There aren't many."
"Do you haff pills of sale?"
Gaylord Riley slanted a sharp look at the Swede's bland face. "Sure . . . what are you getting at?" "Do you mindt if I come oudt and look dem over?"
Riley felt his neck getting hot, and he was suddenly aware that all movement on the street had stopped. "Any time, Sheriff, any time at all."
Riley turned sharply away, and as he did so he saw Desloge. The gunman was seated on a bench before the saloon, and as their eyes met Desloge slowly, significantly, closed one eye.
Riley's anger rose, but he started on toward the restaurant, when Hardcastle stopped him. "Anything I can do," Hardcastle said, "you come to me." Riley stopped abruptly. "What do you mean? How could you help me?"
Hardcastle shrugged. "I don't believe it for one minute, but the word's gone around town-Shattuck is losing cattle and blaming you."
"To hell with him!" Riley brushed by him and went to the restaurant.
At that hour it was almost deserted. The girl who took his order did not smile-she simply took the order and walked away. When his food was placed before him it was almost thrown upon the table. Angrily he started to rise, but he was hungry, and there was no place else in town where a man could eat. He relaxed, and began to eat. It was then that McCarty came in.
"Mind if I sit down?"
Riley looked up with relief. "Glad to have you, but the way people are treating me, I don't know whether you should or not."
"I'll chance it." McCarty ordered his own supper and sat back, lighting his pipe. "Shattuck is missing cattle."
"So he blames me?" Riley said bitterly.
"I've got plenty of cattle of my own."
"Who else would dare take them?" McCarty asked mildly. "There simply aren't any others anywhere in the country around. Nobody can understand where you got all those cattle you say you have."
"I bought that herd in Spanish Fork."
McCarty shrugged. "Understand me, I am not saying this, and it was I who told you of that herd, but some say there never was such a herd, and if there was there would be no way of getting it down, not from there to here."
He had brought that herd down over the Outlaw Trail, and few even knew of that trail's existence.
The drivers who brought it down for him were themselves outlaws.
"I bought it from Doc Beaman's nephew-that doctor here in town."
McCarty looked up sharply. "Have you told anybody that? If you haven't, don't. Coker Beaman was found two weeks ago, shot dead beside the trail. He had been murdered and robbed."
Gaylord Riley suddenly stared at the food before him, his appetite gone. Within hint arose a feeling of desperation. Was he to have no chance? Was this to be the end of all he hoped for?
"I didn't kill him. I bought the herd from him, and I have a bill of sale for it. I paid him in gold coin."
"Doc thought a lot of that boy. He's stirring up the law to find the killer."
"I hope they do find him." Riley sat back in his chair, trying to think the problem through.
He was a stranger here, a man without friends, a man with no history he dared to repeat. Nor could he call anyone as witnesses, for his friends were outlaws who dared not come in; and even if they did, their word would not be accepted.
"You'd better eat," McCarty suggested. "I think you're going to need it."
Riley knew it was unlikely that anyone would believe he had brought his herd of cattle through the rough, dry country where ordinarily two or three men on horseback were lucky to find enough water. And the men who knew anything about that country were few indeed, and unlikely to want to appear. Several were Mormons, hiding out for reasons best known to themselves, hard-working men who had found safety in the remote mountains of the Roost country.
He felt suddenly sick. He stared bleakly across the room. He could give it all up and run. He could ride back to Dandy Crossing, swim the Colorado, and head for the Roost. There probably had not been one night when, half-consciously, the outfit had not waited, expecting him to come. It was hard for an outlaw to make it on the outside. Their futures as well as his own were at stake here, and he had cattle and a ranch, and a home being built.
"If anybody comes hunting me," Riley said, "you tell them they won't have to look far. I'll be out there in the Sweet Alice Hills, or I'll be here. If they want to talk, I'll talk; but if they come hunting trouble, they'll get a belly full of it."
McCarty's eyes warmed. "Good lad," he said quietly. "Stay with it, and I'll stay with you-as much as a man can."
Chapter 10
Martin Hardcastle rolled the cigar in his lips and considered the situation with pleasure. From their hide-out in the Blues his men had struck swiftly at the Shattuck herds. They had stolen only a few cattle at first, and they had left not too clear a trail--a trail that led into the broken canyon country beyond which lay the Sweet Alice Hills.
A few nights later, they had struck again, and to make it not too obvious, they had swept up a few Boxed 0 cattle at the same time.
Hardcastle himself had helped to foment the talk about the white-face cattle; after all, where could Gaylord Riley get such cattle when Shattuck would not sell? And why would any honest man choose to live in such a remote place?
Hardcastle knew from experience that most people love to talk, and like to repeat what they have heard. Trouble is born of rumor, and nine people out of ten will repeat a rumor-consciously or unconsciously adding their bit. Out of those rumors had come Peg Oliver's attitude, Larsen's questions, and McCarty's sympathy.
Hardcastle was bidding for a cattle war out of which he would not only have his revenge against Dan Shattuck, but a profit in sweeping up the pieces. He would not be suspected, since he had nothing apparently-to gain.
Riley was young and likely to be hot-headed. Dan Shattuck was stubborn and hot-headed himself. Hardcastle intended to see a gun battle between the two, and he did not care which man won. He knew nothing of Riley's skill with a gun.
Gaylord Riley had planned to remain over night in town, but now he decided against it. With two pack horses loaded with supplies, he took the trail to the hills. Behind him, but not too far behind, rode Desloge.
Desloge was too shrewd not to see what Hard-castle was bidding for, and was also too shrewd not to realize the whole affair would erupt into a shooting match of which he wanted no part. A bad man with a gun, Desloge had long since been aware that men get killed in gun battles, and that there is no telling who will die and who will survive. Bullets are indiscriminate, and he had no intention of dying at this stage of the game. Hence, what he wanted was quick cash and a quick ride out of the country.
He had an idea he would have that cash from Gaylord Riley.
The ranch was deserted when Riley rode into the yard. A note on the table told him that all three men had gone back to the basin to brand stock.
Riley stripped the horses of their packs and turned them into the corral; then he took in the articles purchased in Rimrock and arranged them on the shelves. Among other things he had bought five hundred rounds of ammunition.
He chuckled when he recalled the expression on the storekeeper's face when he had given his order. "Five hundred rounds! What are you expecting? A war?"
"Hate to have one come an' not be ready to take part," Riley had replied. "Like gain' to a hangin' and forgettin' your rope."
He heard the horse walk into the yard, and turned quickly to the door. It was Desloge.
The outlaw drew up, smiling with his thin lips. "Like old times, ain't it, ,Riley?" he said.
"What do you mean? Old times? I never saw you but once in my life before, and I've no business with you."
"Well, now." Desloge was very sure of himself. He clasped his palms on the pommel and continued to smile, but there was no friendliness in his eyes. "That's as may be. S'posin' I was to go to Dan Shattuck with what I know? Or to that Swede sheriff?"
Riley's reaction was so swift that Desloge had no time to prepare, no time to resist. A swift blow knocked his hands loose from the pommel, then he was jerked from the saddle.
Desloge hit the ground with a thump, and Riley grabbed him by the collar with a short, twisting grip that set the outlaw to gagging. Jerking him to his knees while Desloge's hands clawed at his wrist, Riley slapped him three times across the face, ringing blows that left streaks where they landed. Then he threw Desloge to the ground and stepped back. "You've got a gun," he said coolly. "All you've got to lose is your life."
Desloge lay where he had fallen, his stomach tight with fear. Nothing had gone as he had planned. He had been sure his threats would frighten Riley into a pay-off, and he knew Riley had the money. He had planned to suggest that for a thousand dollars he would ride clear out of the country, but now he had a sickening realization he would be lucky to get out alive. He had expected a half-frightened boy. He had cornered a mountain lobo.
"All I wanted," he said, and his voice was shaking, "was a road stake. Say a hundred dollars?"
Riley had shaken his confidence nine hundred dollars' worth.
"Ride out the way you rode in," Riley replied, "and be glad you're able. And stay away from Rim-rock. If I hear one word of this I'll hunt you down and hang your pelt on the nearest tree."
Desloge struggled to his feet, careful to keep his hands free of his gun. Even more carefully he climbed into his saddle. As he settled down and started to turn his horse, four men rode into the ranch yard. Three rode in from the basin: Tell Sackett, Darby Lewis, and Cruz. The fourth was a hard-faced man with white hair, a stranger to the other three. "Take a good look," the white-haired man advised them, "then you'll be able to s
wear that man rode away from here, and what he looked like. Get that?" And then the white-haired man turned his horse and rode away, following Desloge.
Forty minutes later Desloge slowed his running horse to walk him down a slope near a butte.
It was sundown, and the shadows were long. Odd, how much the shadows added to the fearsomeness of this wild land. Down there, near the brush . . . that rock looked like a man on a horse.
Desloge rode on, and the rock moved. It not only looked like a man on a horse; it was a man on a horse, and he knew the man. A man with white hair and a seamed brown face.
And in that instant, Desloge knew he was going to die.
He had killed men, but he had never known how it felt to be about to die. He knew now.
"Couldn't let him live honest, could you?" There was no anger in the man's voice. "Your kind could never do that. He put fear into you, and you'd ride away, but sooner or later you'd talk. You would spoil something fine."
Desloge struggled for words. He wanted to beg, but he had a feeling it would be useless. He wanted to deny what the man said, but he would be lying; and he felt that now was not a time to lie.
"I'll ride," he said at last. "I won't even stop for my warbag. I'll just keep going."
"You've killed men. You've got a gun."
It had grown dark, but then an early moon had brought more light. Desloge cleared his throat. He started to speak, and then he thought he saw his chance. He touched his horse with a spur and swept his hand down for his gun as the horse leaped.
The gun cleared the holster. He felt a bursting sense of triumph as his gun swept up, then down on its target. He'd show that old--
He ran into something in the darkness. Something white-hot that burned all the way through him and somehow started him floating toward the ground. He felt himself hit and roll over; and then he was looking up at the moon and he was dead.
It was Larsen who found the body. He was not surprised. Desloge had come to the sort of end such men as Desloge all come to sooner or later, led to it in many cases by their very attempt to escape it.
Dark Canyon (1963) Page 7