Their horses walked into the stillness, tired from the miles behind them, grateful for the scent of water and the end of their journey.
Owen Chantry dismounted and reached up to help Marny down, just a second before Doby reached her. Doby scowled and dropped his hands as if to imply that he had not even intended to help. Then he walked to his father, helped him from the saddle, and half-carried him into the house.
“Old man,” Chantry said, “do you want to explore out there? Have a look around? You’re probably the best scout among us.”
“Maybe. Y’do pretty well your own self. Ain’t nothin’ to fear from this place right here. A man could come up, but he’d make a powerful lot of noise gettin’ through all that brush.”
When the gear was stripped from the horses, the packs carried inside, and a bed made for Kernohan, Owen Chantry took his rifle and went out along the rim. The shadows were pulling back from the vast expanse to the west, where hundreds of miles of land lay open to the eye.
The land at the rim sloped off, then ended abruptly in a tremendous escarpment, a sheer wall of two hundred feet dropping away to talus slopes below.
Yet the cliffs were not smooth, but were fluted and broken. Suddenly, near the place where the walls of two escarpments met, he saw a narrow gap between a boulder and a raised portion of the wall. He peered through.
Here, hidden at the edge of the escarpment, was a secret place—a descent to the ground below, but an excellent firing position also. Several possible trails were in full view from here, and a man with a rifle—
“It shall be me,” he said aloud. “Or the old man. Somebody who’s good with a rifle.”
Marny came up to meet him. “Can you see them?”
“They haven’t found us yet.”
“Have you found out where it is? I mean, whatever it is that’s hidden?”
“I think I know how to find it now.”
She looked out over the forest and meadows below.
“It is beautiful. With all God’s bounty, why must there be so much trouble?”
“That is the hardest question of history, Marny, the question people have asked in every age, in every time. Many men want what other men have. Men are often greedy, jealous, and vindictive. Or they look across the fence at what they think is greener grass. They pursue will-o’-the-wisp dreams, such as this “treasure”.”
Chantry scanned the horizon. “Men have died, months of time have been wasted, and all to get something for nothing, to profit from someone else’s spoils. And the end is not yet in sight.”
“What will happen?” Marny looked up at him.
“They will come after us. They have committed themselves to a course of action. If they gave up now, all their efforts would go for nothing. So they will not give up.”
“When will they come?”
“I don’t know. But we must stop them … if we can.”
“I hope that Mac Mowatt does not come with them. I wouldn’t want to see him shot.”
“Nor I.”
Bright now was the land below, bright with the early sun, with the clearness of the sky.
It was a good land. Grazing land for the most part, but here and there a plain where something could grow well. A man could make a living here. And as mining increased —as it was bound to—he could sell beef cattle to the miners. And vegetables and grain also.
Chantry stooped and picked up a handful of the soil. Good … very good. … Many trees and plants grew here, and others could also grow. Down there on the flat, still others could grow. There was more water there. A man might choose crops by studying what already grew in the soil, and choosing those crops which needed the same soil, water, and climate.
He leaned on the rock and put his rifle beside him. His eyes again swept the vast green land that lay below. What a place Clive Chantry had chosen for his cabin! The rampart! There could not be a more beautiful view anywhere, nor one encompassing a wider lookout.
He was tired. The warm sun baked his muscles and he slowly relaxed.
“When this is over, Owen, where will you live?”
“Here. … If I’m alive. Or down there,” he gestured below.
Then he saw them. Four riders in a small, neat group, coming out of a narrow draw near a canyon. They rode up out of the draw and came at a canter across a meadow, rode into the trees, then emerged again.
He pointed. “Marny? Look!”
She looked. They rode in a tight group, occasionally stringing out, then coming together again like figures in a square dance. “From here,” she said quietly, “they look beautiful!”
“Yes,” he agreed, watching them appear and disappear along the trail they followed.
“How far away are they?”
He shrugged. “A mile and a half. Two miles. They’re slowing down now, and I think they’re looking at us.”
“You mean they see us?”
“No. They couldn’t pick us out from here. …
I think they’re scanning the wall for a way up.”
“We’d better tell the others,” Marny said.
“All right.” But he hesitated, his eyes reaching out to the horizon. “There will be others, you know, coming by some other route.”
“Do you want Doby?”
“No, tell him to check on his father, then locate the old man and work with him. They will have to cover the trail from the spring side. This may be a long fight, and it may be over quickly.”
The riders below were closer now. Chantry caught the gleam of light from a rifle barrel.
He watched them, and there were few places their trail led that could not be seen from his vantage point.
He tucked the rifle butt against his shoulder and lowered his cheek to the stock, sighting along the barrel, tracking them. They were too far away for a shot, but he was in no hurry. Nor had he any wish to waste his ammunition.
Suddenly, he was anxious. The riders must know they were up here. The riders must surely know that they could be seen. Then why …?
He turned sharply and ran to the cabin.
He got to the door and saw Kernohan inside. He was sitting up in bed. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?” Kernohan asked him.
Kernohan’s rifle was in a corner near the door, and Chantry caught it up with his left hand and threw it to the sick man. “We’ve got trouble,” Chantry said.
He ducked away from the door and started for the trees. Suddenly a shadow loomed in the trees.
He saw a rifle come up and then he shot from the hip. The bullet hit a tree near the man’s face, scattering splinters and bark. Chantry worked the lever and fired again. The man’s gun banged but no bullet sound followed. Chantry saw the man clinging to a tree, one arm around it.
The man was staring at him with wide, empty eyes, his lips working with words that would not come out, that would never come out.
Owen Chantry ran past the dying man, catching up his rifle as he went. It was a Henry, and a good rifle. Suddenly he halted and went back to the man, now down on the ground, his shoulder and chest against the tree, his head hanging forward.
Without ceremony or hesitation, Chantry unbuckled his gun belt and jerked it free. There were twenty loops in the man’s belt, all filled with .44’s.
They had timed it nicely. The four horsemen below must have waited under cover until the others had circled around to come up to the house.
While Chantry was watching the riders below, the men near the house had simply closed in.
Luckily, he had guessed their strategy in time. Or had he?
There must be others. Where were they? Where was Marny? Where were the old man and Doby?
No sounds, no shots.
Was the man he had wounded or killed the only one near the house? He didn’t think so. Where were the others?
He crouched behind a thick ponderosa at a point where another had fallen against it, offering a kind of cover.
A voice called out from somewhere in front of him. “Come on out,
Chantry! Give yourself up!
We’ve got the kid and we’ve got Marny Fox!”
“Is Mac Mowatt with you?” Chantry called back.
A momentary silence. Then: “No, he ain’t.
That ain’t got nothing to do with it. You come out or we’ll kill ‘em both.”
“I’d like to hear you say that to Mac Mowatt,” he called back.
“You come on out. Throw down your guns and come on out.”
Chantry eased his position, seeking a place to move, giving a glance to the ground cover to see how much noise he would make in moving. He thought he had the threatening voice located.
Where was the old man? Did Mowatt’s gang even know about him?
“Come out, damn you, or we’ll start busting the kid’s fingers!”
“Who killed Clive?” Chantry asked, just loud enough to be heard. “I told you I wanted him … or them … hung. Have you done what I want?”
“Are you crazy? We’re in command here!”
“Are you now?”
How many were there? Chantry was suddenly quite certain that there were no more than three, possibly two, and that if they had captured Doby and Marny, the boy and girl were not with these men.
He moved swiftly, silently, twenty yards in the trees and knelt down.
Where were Mowatt, Freka, and Strawn?
Chantry was poised for a move when he heard the sudden boom from a heavy rifle. There was a yell, then a volley of shots, then after a slight interval, the heavy boom again. Then swearing.
He crept toward the noise, carrying both rifles. Suddenly, he dropped his own rifle and threw the other to his shoulder. Several men had broken out of the brush and were running diagonally across from him. He opened fire. One man stumbled and fell, and another turned swiftly and levered three quick shots at Chantry. Something struck him a wicked blow and he fell. A second shot spat bark from the tree where his head had been just a moment ago. Chantry fired again but the men were gone.
He was on his knees, rising, when a man broke through the brush coming right straight at him.
Chantry swung his rifle and caught him across the shins. The man’s mouth opened in a scream, and Chantry left the ground in a lunging dive that knocked the man to the ground. The man tried to get up, swinging his gun to bring it to bear, and Chantry, lacking purchase or room for a proper swing, thudded the butt of his rifle against the man’s chin.
Chantry himself staggered and fell against a tree.
The man, whoever he was, was out cold.
Chantry threw the man’s rifle into the trees and jerked off his gun belt. His left leg hurt bad, but he could see no blood.
Chantry decided to give up his spare rifle. It was too awkward to carry. He leaned it against a tree, half-hidden by low-growing branches.
Then he moved to another tree and limped into a thicker stand. Now he could see the corner of the cabin, some distance off through the forest. He had started toward it when his move was cut short.
“All right, Chantry! This is Strawn!
Don’t move!”
There was nothing else to do. Chantry stood perfectly still and they came up to him and took his gun.
Chapter 19
A wrong move—a move of any kind, and he was dead. There was no nonsense about Strawn. He was not a vicious man, but he had killed and would kill again, and his shots were true.
To move was to die, and Owen Chantry was not ready to die.
“Looks like you win the hand, Jake,” he said mildly. “I was hoping you weren’t around.”
“He’s around, all right, and I am, too!”
That would be Ollie Fenelon. Two more of the Mowatt men were coming up through the trees.
“Hell!” one of them exclaimed. “This ain’t no buffalo gun! This here’s a Henry!”
“Well? You heard it, didn’t you? Sure sounded like a buffalo gun! Sounded like a big Sharps fifty! I’d a swore—”
“Mac wants to see you, Owen,” Strawn said.
“You just walk easy now and don’t make me kill you.”
Chantry had no choice but to follow.
When they came to Mowatt’s camp, a fire was going, and Mac Mowatt was waiting for them.
“Well, Chantry.” Mowatt was sitting, his heavy forearms locked about his knees. “You’ve given us some trouble. But now you’re goin’ to make it all worthwhile.”
“Always glad to oblige,” Chantry said, seating himself on a rock, “what can I do for you?
Now, if you want to leave the country, you just take this trail along here—”
“Leave? Who said anythin’ about leavin’?”
Mowatt asked him.
“Well,” Chantry said seriously, “it seems to me that if you want any of your men left, that’s what you should do. I figured Strawn here took me because you needed a guide through the mountains, and there’s nothing I’d rather do.”
“Damn you, Chantry,” Mowatt said. “Go to hell. All we want from you is treasure.
Show us where it is and we’ll let you go free.”
Chantry smiled. “Now, Mac. Let’s be honest. You’d never turn me loose. You know I’d only get another gun—”
Tom Freka had joined them. “Not without hands, you wouldn’t. What if we took off your hands, Chantry? You got two hands now, but I got a bowie, an’ Pierce has a ax to cut firewood.”
“That sounds just like you, Freka,” Chantry replied quietly. “You’d cut off my hands because you know I can draw faster and shoot straighter than you. You’re scared, Freka. You’re just plain scared.”
“Am I?” Freka took a big burning stick from the fire. “You also got two eyes.
How would you like to try for one?”
“Put it down, Freka,” Mowatt said.
“I’ll kill a man, but I’ll be damned if I’ll torture one.”
“Then how do you expect us to find that treasure?” Freka asked. “You think he’ll just up an’ tell us?”
“Why not, Freka?” Chantry said.
“Mowatt’s a gentleman. And Strawn here’s a man of his word. I’d trust either one of them.” He stretched his stiff leg out before him. “Mowatt, do you have Marny and the boy … Doby?”
“I do. Catched ‘em unexpected like. Yeah, I got ‘em all. Back yonder.”
Mowatt pointed back over his shoulder.
“Turn them loose. Let them get out of here with their horses and Doby’s father, and I’ll take you to whatever it is, if I can.”
“You think we gonna believe that?” Freka demanded.
“I believe him, Freka,” Strawn said.
Mowatt shifted his position and took out his pipe. “Figure it this way, Chantry. We got you. We got them. The boy’s old man is mighty sick hurt. We ain’t got to argue with nobody, an’ we ain’t got to deal with nobody.
Either you tell us what we want, or we let that man die. We might even shoot Doby.”
Mowatt drew on his pipe to test the stem, then began to tamp tobacco. “We might even kill you.”
“You might. But I don’t think you will,” said Chantry. “Not if you know what’s good for Marny.”
“You don’t seem to get the idea,” Mowatt said. “You ain’t in no position to bargain, Chantry. You got no place to stand. Just get us that treasure an’ you’ll have no more trouble.”
“Release my friends,” Chantry said quietly, “then hang the man who killed Clive, and I’ll show you the treasure.”
“You goin’ to listen to that talk?” Freka snorted.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Pierce Mowatt said. “It might be a right good deal.”
“Might be at that,” Jake Strawn said.
“We got nothing against the boy, or his pa either.”
“Chantry’s a troublemaker,” Freka said angrily. “Can’t you see? He’s tryin’ to get us fightin’ amongst ourselves.”
“Seems to me,” Chantry said, “that the killer should volunteer to be hung, just for the good of his friends.”
He was smiling easily, but his mind was working swiftly.
“Where’s the treasure, Chantry?” Mowatt asked bluntly.
“You boys have kept me so busy I haven’t had time to look.” Chantry shrugged.
They had his gun, and they had his rifle, but somewhere not half a mile away the captured rifle still leaned against a tree.
“Chantry,” Mowatt spoke slowly and carefully, “I want you to get this straight.
You’ve given us a sight of trouble, an’ we ain’t goin’ to put up with it. You got you one more chance. Find whatever it was Clive Chantry brought out of Mexico. If you don’t, I’ll not leave you to the boys. I’ll shoot you myself.”
“Looks like I don’t have much choice,”
Chantry said. “But all I’ve got is a clue.”
“What’s the clue?” Pierce demanded.
“I know what the clue is,” Chantry admitted, “but I don’t know how to read it. Like it or not, I’m going to need time.
“When Clive was murdered, he wasn’t quite dead when he was left behind. So he left me something to work on.”
“What could he leave if he was dyin’?” It was Freka again.
“He wrote something on the doorstep. He wrote the word ten.”
They stared at him.
“Ten? What’s that mean?” Freka demanded.
“Ten what?”
“My thought exactly, gentlemen,” Chantry said. “Ten what? Then I wondered, if it was ten feet, ten miles, ten inches, then why didn’t he write the numeral? Why the word ten?”
“Don’t make no sense,” Ollie Fenelon muttered. “It surely don’t.”
“You figgered it out yet?” Mowatt asked.
“Maybe. I think he was trying to write Tennyson.” Chantry said.
“Tennyson? What’s that?” Pierce demanded.
“It ain’t what,” Mowatt said. “It’s who.
It’s a man’s name.”
“Name of who?” Ollie asked. “I never heard such a name.”
“It’s a writer,” Mowatt said.
He glared around at the others. “If you would read once in a while you’d know somethin’. Tennyson is a writer.” He glanced at Chantry.
“English ain’t he?”
Over On the Dry Side (1975) Page 15