Dark Canyon (1963)

by L'amour, Louis

  "You're quite a ways from home, Marie," he said, and his smile broadened. His eyes held a curious hard yet speculative glint. "And quite a woman, I'd say.

  To ride on was to draw nearer to him, but to turn back meant to ride into wilder country, where there was nothing and nobody. She hadn't seen so much as a chipmunk in miles.

  She started to ride around him but he swung his horse in front of hers, still smiling, a lazy, insolent smile.

  "Are you going to get out of my way?"

  "Ain't decided."

  He rested his big hands on the pommel of the saddle and rolled his fresh cigarette in his teeth. She was mighty pretty, but if she kicked up a row he'd have to leave the country. He had seen what happened to men who molested women in the western country-there was nothing that brought action faster. If a man was lucky he would simply be hung; some had been burned.

  If she kicked up a fuss . . . but would she? Maybe she was just waiting for a man like him. She was a high-stepping filly with quite a body under the clothes. He felt himself starting to sweat.

  Marie Shattuck was in a quandary. She might try riding upstream or downstream in the water, but the creek was shadowed by willows and cottonwoods; and back there away from the trail it was now almost dark. Yet the longer she delayed the greater the danger.

  Putting spurs to her horse, she started forward with a lunge, but Spooner was too quick and too ready. His big hand dropped to her wrist, and as her horse leaped forward she was dragged from the saddle.

  Instantly, she swung her quirt. The leather lash whipped across his face, and involuntarily he jerked back. Even in the half-light she could see the livid streak where the quirt had struck him. With an oath, he lunged for her-and then a rope shot out of nowhere and Strat Spooner was jerked back. off his feet into the water.

  Wildly, he fought to throw off the rope, and struggled to get to his feet. The stranger's horse simply backed up, as any good roping horse would do, and Spooner sprawled in the water, cursing. He grabbed for his gun but it was gone, fallen from his holster when he had hit the water.

  Marie recognized the rider at once. It was the tall man she had seen by the fire in the canyon. "Evenin', ma'am," he said gently. "This feller seems to need a mite of cooling off."

  "Drown him for all I care!" she flared. Then she smiled. "I want to thank you. I don't know what I'd have done."

  The black horse moved again, and Strat Spooner fell again, all sprawled out.

  "Figured you'd best have an escort back to Rim-rock, ma'am. I know Riley would be mighty put out if he knew a friend of his was in trouble."

  "You're a friend of his?"

  "Lord Riley? I should reckon." He turned his horse and dragged Spooner out on the far bank. He shook the rope loose and Spooner backed out of the loop.

  "I'll kill you for this!" Spooner said.

  "My, my! He surely does get wrought up, ma'am. Maybe what he needs is an evenin' walk."

  Spurring his horse, he rode up alongside of Spooner's horse and slapped it lightly with the rope. The horse leaped away and Spooner broke into a torrent of curses.

  Kehoe rode up beside her. "If you will permit me," he said politely, "I'll ride the rest of the way into town with you."

  "Be careful. That was Strat Spooner back there." "Heard of him."

  "He's killed several men."

  "He seemed mighty upset back there." Kehoe glanced at her. "Was he waitin' for you?"

  "He might have been. I-I often ride this way." She paused, thinking about it. "Now that I remember, so does he. And not only when I ride out that way."

  "Nothing out there to call a man."

  Kehoe was puzzled. And then he did remember something. "Unless he's tied in with those men holed up over in the Blues. There's twenty or thirty men over there-gunhands, and such.

  "You know the spring over east of the head of Indian Creek?" he went on. "They're holed up there, a pretty rough crowd. We stumbled on them one time-they didn't see us-and it was pretty obvious they were hiding out. I recognized one of them. A man named Gus Enloe-a wanted man down in the Nation."

  She had heard the name somewhere.

  By now they were at the edge of Rimrock. He drew up and half turned to go.

  "Who are you? What shall I call you?" she asked.

  "You mustn't call me anything, Miss Shattuck. Just forget about me. I know that Lord is very concerned about you . .. not that he has mentioned your name, because he wouldn't. But when I heard your horse crossing Cottonwood Draw, I followed on to see who you were, and then trailed you back toward town to make sure you got home all right."

  "Thank you. . . . You called him 'Lord'?"

  "Short for Gaylord-one time I saw him trying on a top hat and said he looked like a lord."

  "You've known him long?"

  Kehoe hesitated, and then he said quietly, "Yes, I have . . . long enough to know there isn't a better man anywhere, at any time; and if he's given a chance, he will make something of that ranch."

  "They are saying he has stolen cattle."

  "Lord? Not on your life."

  "But he has cattle?"

  "He bought that herd up Spanish Fork way, and drove it down over the Swell."

  "But that's impossible!"

  "No, it isn't. Most times it is, but if a man tries it after heavy rains, as he did, and if he has friends who tell him where the water is, then he can make it. And believe me, he made it. I'm one of the men who helped him."

  "One of your friends was hurt."

  "You noticed that? Yes, he is, and we're worried." "Do you have anything-medicines, or like that?" "Nothing," Kehoe said bitterly. "We haven't a damn thing, and he'll fight us if we try to take him to the kid's place-to Lord's. He's afraid he'll get him into trouble."

  "It's a bullet wound?"

  Kehoe knew he had gone too far not to trust her now; in fact, he had been trusting her all the way along. "Yes," he said.

  "You wait here. I'll ride in and see what I can get."

  She rode swiftly to the drugstore. She had several times helped to care for wounds, and knew very well what to get that the drugstore had in stock. She ordered quickly.

  The druggist, a short, red-faced man named White, looked at her. "You had a shootin' yonder? To the ranch?"

  "No . . . only Uncle Dan wanted to have these things on hand . . . with the rustlers, and all."

  "Oh, sure! Liable to be some shootin', at that." Then he scowled. "Say, come to think of it, Pico was in here and stocked up only last week. Durned near bought me out."

  "Give the things to me anyway," she said impatiently. Every moment the man waited he was in danger, and he might begin to doubt her and just ride off. "And please hurry!"

  "Well, if you say so," White grumbled, "but Pico, he bought enough bandages and medicine and suchlike to outfit a regiment. Seems a waste of-"

  "Are you going to give me what I ordered or not?" "Oh, sure!" Hastily, he wrapped up the package. "I surely didn't mean-"

  She took the package and turned swiftly toward the door, brushing by the man who was coming in, not even noticing who it was.

  Ed Larsen turned and looked after her. Now, how long had it been since Marie Shattuck had failed to speak to him? He walked to the counter.

  "A dime's worth of hoarhound," he said. "I take to sweets," he explained. "Aboudt all dat's left for an old man."

  "That Marie Shattuck," White said, shaking his head. "I never knew her to get mad before. She-"

  Larsen was a patient man and a good listener, and tonight he listened, offering no comment until the end of what the druggist had to say. "Some boy," he explained wisely. "Young girls get mighty fidgety at such times."

  White's face cleared. "Oh, sure! Never thought of that!"

  Larsen went outside and closed the door behind him, effectively cutting off the questions White would have. After all, it was a small town, and White would be curious. Also, there were very few eligible young men around, and Larsen did not wish to be subjected to White's s
peculations.

  Marie was gone, leaving only the dust of her going to settle in the empty street.

  "If I were to ride oudt," he said aloud, "I could get to the ranch aboudt suppertime. Seems to me Dan Shattuck eats late."

  The more he thought of it, the more he thought it was a good idea. And it was not much of a ride, when a man considered the kind of cooking at Shat-tuck's ranch.

  And no telling what a man might turn up-if he listened.

  Chapter 12

  The dining room at Shattuck's ranch was a long, low room with heavy beams and a huge fireplace. Dan Shattuck was a man who liked to live well, and he had come to the frontier when living well was impossible.

  Breakfast he ate with the hands, and at noonday he was usually on the range and ate a lunch, or he was at a chuck-wagon or a campfire. Supper he insisted on enjoying in the grand manner, at a table with a tablecloth, cut glass, and silver.

  Partly, it was a matter of preference; but partly, too, it was for Marie's sake. This was the background a girl should have, he believed, the background of a stable home, of dignity, courtesy, and manner-but without stuffiness.

  Of the visitors who came to his table, Sampson McCarty, Sheriff Larsen, Oliver, and Doc Beaman were welcome at any time. Sampson McCarty and Doc Beaman were both there tonight when Larsen rode in and was promptly invited to dinner.

  Marie, who had changed quickly and hurried to the dining room for supper, came to the door just as the men were walking into the room, and she caught a thread of conversation as she entered.

  ". . . holdup at Casner Station. One of them, at least, was wounded. I believe it was the Colburn bunch."

  Doc Beaman was a wiry little man, often rough, always impatient. For all of that, he was a good doctor, and the frontier was accustomed to roughness. Had he been easier to get along with, he might never have come west, for his professional training was far superior to the average doctor of 'his time.

  He was impatient now. "Damn it, Larsen," he said testily, "when are you going to arrest that Riley? You know damn well he's a thief. And probably a murderer. I've heard he admits he got those cattle from Coker."

  "Dere is no evidence of such a t'ing. Of stealing Burrage, he tells me nearly four t'ousand dollar was drawn by Riley."

  "We're all losing cattle," Oliver suggested mildly, "and we weren't before he came into the country. I will admit that's no evidence, but there it is."

  McCarty helped himself to the roast beef and passed the plate to the sheriff. "I told him your nephew had those cattle at Spanish Fork, and I let him know they might be had for a bargain. You told me yourself he tried to get additional capital from you, Doc."

  "Well, he didn't get it! Coker Beaman was always a fool about money. Throwing good money after bad! Why, he knew nothing about cattle! That boy jumped into one fool thing after another. Just the same, he was murdered. Murdered and robbed, and who knew he had that money? The only one who could have known was Riley."

  "A dozen men might have known," McCarty suggested. "Doc, if you operated on your patients with as little evidence as you're using to convict Riley, you'd have a lot of dead men on your hands."

  "Operation-that's what's needed. That's just what's needed! An operation with a rope!"

  "He's a hard worker," Shattuck said suddenly. "When we were out there that night, I noticed it. He's done a lot of work. A man like that doesn't steal."

  Marie glanced at him quickly, gratefully, and he was glad he had said it, even if he was not quite sure of what he said. Work had been done-he had begun to notice that before they reached the ranch. They had crossed a small wash and he had seen a dam holding back a little water. Later he had seen a spreader dam on a slope. He had never built such a thing himself, but he had heard of them. Then the house, the corrals . . . and he knew the kind of rawhide building rustlers did. They threw together a shack, never expecting to be around very much. Riley's house was of logs-and built to take additions. Riley might be a thief, but if he was he intended to be among them for a long time.

  "Eustis is right!" Beaman declared. "If the sheriff here doesn't see fit to act, then we must band together and do it ourselves!"

  Larsen buttered a thick slice of bread, bit off a piece, and chewed it with appreciation. Whatever else might be said of Shattuck, he certainly had the best butter in the country.

  "When dere is acting to do," he said cheerfully, "I shall do it." He lifted his old blue eyes and looked across the table at Doc. "And if Eustis or anybody else moves against anybody, I shall arrest him, and I shall see him convicted of whatever crime is committed." Larsen smiled. "That includes you, Doctor."

  There was no anger in his voice, not even a ring of authority, simply the calm statement of fact, but Doc Beaman had no doubts. Ed Larsen would do exactly as he said.

  When the others rose to go into Dan Shattuck's study for brandy and cigars, Larsen lingered at the table with Marie. He said, "I am an oldt man. The company of a young lady is more inspiring dan brandy. I stay."

  Marie was suddenly frightened. Was he going to pry? To ask questions? Hurriedly, she said, "Sheriff, everybody says you are Swedish, but you do not sound like a Swede."

  He chuckled. "My papa is Swedish, my mother was Flemish, undt I was born in Holland. I talk Swedish, Dutch, Flemish ... undt some French.

  "Mostly," he added, "I listen. I was listening to the druggist. He likes to talk, that one."

  Though Marie was frightened, her expression did not change. She would not, she could not give them away. The strange rider had trusted her, and he had helped her. Perhaps nothing would have happened-not really-but no one had ever laid a hand on her before. Not in that way.

  She must be careful, very careful. "I was in there tonight," she said calmly, "but I am afraid I gave him very little chance to talk."

  His eyes twinkled. "A sheriff," he said, "in such a place as dis has to be more dan a sheriff. He must be chudge also. The courts," he added, "dey are far away. It is better we settle our own business here."

  She filled his cup, waiting for what had to come. When it did come she was surprised. He said, "A young girl . . . she must be careful. I do nodt ask what you do with the bandages."

  She sat down suddenly opposite him. "I gave them to a man whom I believe to be an outlaw. I do not know that he is, and I do not care. Had it not been for him, I-"

  She hesitated, and then without naming location or place, she described briefly what had happened.

  "Ah, so? Strat should be more wise."

  There was no need to ask questions. He fully understood the situation now, or believed that he did. But he was positive that the wounded outlaw would be one of the Colburn outfit.

  What he had said was true. Court was a good long way off to the north; to get a prisoner there for trial was not difficult, but to get witnesses and a substantial case was extremely difficult. To be a sheriff called for a nicety of judgment, and also for sharpness of eye on one hand, blindness on the other. Some things had a way of straightening themselves out, and sometimes the removal of one factor in a situation caused things to settle down. Ed Larsen rarely made arrests, even more rarely did he go to court with one of those cases.

  The Colburn gang were outlaws and wanted men, yet as outlaws went they were a decent lot. Bold, daring, and extremely shrewd, yes. But decent enough in their way. So far they had committed no crimes in his area; if cornered, he knew they would put up a desperate fight.

  As he sat over his coffee he chuckled to himself. Marie had left the room, and now he sat alone, remembering the way she had carefully avoided mentioning any particular creek or place, and had avoided describing the outlaw. But trouble was coming, and he could not see his way clear to avoid it.

  Only Dan Shattuck's seeming lack of interest had kept the pot from boiling over. Eustis, he knew, was fighting to get control, to take the lead that Shattuck had automatically enjoyed all these years. Marie, it was obvious, had not told her uncle about Strat Spooner stopping her, for if she had, D
an would be riding to town with Pico and his hands right now, and within the hour Spooner would be strung to the nearest tree.

  Ed Larsen put down his cup. It was up to him. He was going to have to see Spooner and order him to leave town.

  He was, he felt, a reasonably brave man, but when he thought of Spooner something turned over inside him. Larsen had never been a gunfighter. He had fought Indians, hunted buffalo, and long ago had served a hitch in the army in Europe; but he was no match for Spooner with a pistol. Yet tell him he must.

  McCarty was waiting for him when he left the dining room. "Riding in? Figured you might want company."

  "I do," Larsen said. "I surely do."

  Sampson McCarty was a man he could talk to, and he talked now as they rode away. He told him briefly and concisely the events of the day, even mentioning that he suspected the outlaw who had come to Marie's aid was one of the Colburn gang. Then he went on to speak of the bandages and medicines.

  "It figures."

  They rode on in silence for a while. Then McCarty spoke. "Ed, did you ever hear those rumors about there being five men in the Colbum outfit instead of the four everybody talks about?"

  "Heard dem."

  "There's only four now, anyway. There were only four at Casner Station."

  "I t'ink you speak of dat other man in your paper one time."

  McCarty dismissed the suggestion with a gesture. "I must have been mistaken. Nobody ever saw more than four that they could be sure of."

  They rode on toward Rimrock, unaware that hands were being dealt in Rimrock that would alter the situation, and quickly.

  Strat Spooner, left alone in the dark, splashed around in the water, trying to find his pistol. When he failed, he started in the direction his horse had gone; and in that, at least, he was lucky.

  Not a quarter of a mile down the trail he found the horse, the bridle reins entangled in brush. He mounted and rode to Rimrock. By the time he arrived he was thoroughly chilled and in a murderous fury.

  Nick Valenti was lying on his cot, reading a paper, and he turned his head to stare at Spooner, when he came in, still soaked to the hide.