The End of the Trail

by Brett Halliday

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  The End of the Trail

  A Powder Valley Western

  Brett Halliday writing as Peter Field

  1

  The little narrow-gauge engine puffed and churned triumphantly up the last long grade and came to a hissing stop opposite the bleak and unpainted station of Sanctuary Flat on the western slope of the Continental Divide high in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado.

  This was the end of the line for the pigmy train. At Sanctuary Flat, it turned around and made its laborious way back across the Divide and down the eastern slope to a junction with the main line at Pueblo.

  Today, the entire train consisted of two cattle cars and a caboose. It was early autumn in the high country, and there was little incoming railroad traffic to Sanctuary Flat. The brakeman jumped down from the rear steps of the caboose, followed by the single passenger who had made the trip that day.

  Nate Morris set his battered valise down beside the caboose and thrust his hands deep into the slanting pockets of his belted mackinaw. He was a tall, stringy man with a big mouth that looked as though it would smile easily, and cold gray eyes that seemed to belie the indicated softness of his mouth. He wore an old black Stetson and Levis thrust into the tops of high-heeled boots, giving the appearance of a man more at home on the range than in the caboose of a narrow-gauge train.

  It was cold here in late afternoon at the lower end of the wide, high-rimmed mountain valley. Already the sun was low above the jagged western peaks of the Cochetopes, and there was the promise of a near-zero night in the biting air.

  There were empty, wooden, cattle pens along the track ahead, and the two cattle cars had been exactly spotted so their wide doors were opposite unloading chutes leading down to the pens.

  Three men were waiting on the chutes, and as Nate Morris watched, they began pushing a wooden platform across to one of the car doors while the brakeman waited to open it as soon as they were ready to unload.

  A dull, thunderous, rumbling roar came from the interior of the two cattle cars. It was a curious and elemental and somehow frightening sound. It reverberated out into the silent valley, and was caught and flung back by the towering peaks on both sides until the very earth seemed to shake in response to it.

  Morris stooped to pick up his valise, and sauntered forward along the tracks. He stopped beside the first loading pen and watched as one of the doors was pushed open.

  The men on the platform jumped aside hastily as a huge bull trotted out of the interior of the car into the bright, cold sunlight. His head was up and his red-rimmed eyes rolled wickedly while he bellowed his deep-throated hatred of the jostling confinement he was leaving behind him. He was built low to the ground, with a heavy round body like a barrel, deep-chested and thick-necked, with a pair of short, viciously-sharp horns pointed directly forward. He paused on the platform to sniff the cold air, and then trotted disdainfully down the sloping runway into one of the wooden pens. A cowboy ran after him to drop heavy bars into place, shutting him into that particular pen and away from the others.

  Nate Morris’s eyes followed the big animal admiringly, and his lips formed a low whistle of appreciation.

  He turned back and saw a big man grinning down at him from the edge of the platform. “Some hunk of meat, eh?” the big man said genially.

  Morris nodded. “More T-Bones there than I ever saw in one piece before.”

  “Turn the other one out,” the big man directed the two cowboys who were helping him. “Then we’ll open the other car.” He leaned down and put one hand on the platform, leaped easily to the ground beside Morris. Though broad-shouldered and heavy-waisted, he landed as lightly and as lithely as a cat. “Stranger to Sanctuary Flat?” he asked.

  Morris nodded. “Just pulled in on the train.”

  “Thought you must be when I saw your eyes buggin’ out at that bull. I run the TB ranch here on the Flat. Name’s Henderson.”

  Morris put out a thin, calloused hand. “I’m Nate Morris.” He was watching with interest while the cowboys stayed outside the cattle car and cautiously reached in between the siding slats to dislodge wooden bars that separated the car into two compartments. “Got another one like him in there?”

  “Two in each car. Shippin’ ’em in for fall breeding,” Henderson told him expansively. “Have to keep ’em separated so’s they won’t tear each other up,” he added with a deep, rumbling laugh. “And that’d be mighty expensive.”

  “Prize stuff, eh?”

  A second huge bull charged out from the cattle car. His momentum carried him across the platform where he collided with one of the wooden gates. It creaked perilously, but held against his weight, and he let out a maddened rumble before trotting down the incline where he lowered his head to paw the ground and bellow out his challenge to his fellow in the other pen.

  Henderson nodded in answer to Morris’s question. “Cost two thousand each at auctions back east.” There was a deep note of ringing pride in his voice. “And we’ve got the cows to mate with ’em, too.” He flung out his arm toward the high valley, silent and secluded here in the very heart of the Rockies. “Finest grazin’ in the world. Winter a calf here from birth and you’ll get a breed that can stand anything. What’d you say your business was?”

  “I didn’t say.” Nate Morris smiled thinly and shrugged his thin shoulders. “I heard about your breeding experiments in Pueblo and dead-headed a ride up to have a look-see. I run a spread in Wyoming,” he added.

  “Glad to have you,” Henderson told him. “Got to see about unloadin’ them other two bulls now.” He strode forward to the next car, shouting anxiously, “Don’t rile ’em up, Slim. Take it easy there …”

  Nate Morris picked up his valise again and circled around the loading pens. The town of Sanctuary Flat lay just in front of him. It consisted of two buildings besides the station. Both were low, sprawling structures built of untrimmed native logs. Half a dozen saddled horses stood in front of the two buildings. The one nearest the station had an old weathered sign over the door that said CAFE. The other had swinging doors at the entrance, but no sign.

  The sun slid down out of sight behind the westward peaks as Morris walked toward the two buildings. The chill in the air seemed immediately and indefinably strengthened. It cut through a man’s heavy mackinaw and into his very bones. A low-lying haze lay over the wide valley stretching northward from the railroad track, giving it a bleak and forbidding appearance. Behind him, a dull, rumbling roar welled up from the throats of the four bulls that had come in on the train with him. It reverberated through the desolate valley, filling the still air with an awesome tumult.

  Morris pushed open the door of the cafe and went in. It was quite dark inside with no lamps lit yet, but comfortably warm from a big stove in the corner. He set his valise down by the stove and warmed his hands while his eyes adjusted themselves to the dim interior.

  Two men sat together at the horseshoe counter. They turned their heads to give him a long searching look of rude hostility. He got out the makings and rolled a cigarette, was lighting it when a door opened from the rear and a woman came out balancing a tray on the upturned palm of her right hand, shoulder high.

  She was tall and slender, and the enveloping apron couldn’t hide the lithe grace of her body. She gave an impression of leashed vitality and unusual physical strength as she moved along behind the counter. Her brown hair was piled on top of her head in small ringlets, giving her a sort of queenly look; her face was reposed and beautiful. She looked about twenty-five, but Nate Morris guessed she was ten years older than that. Her eyes were sad,
but the corners of her mouth quirked upward in defiance of that sadness.

  She set the tray on the counter beside the two men and efficiently slid the steaming dishes out in front of them. They ordered coffee and she went back to the kitchen, to return with two steaming cups. When they were served she came to the front of the counter and leaned her bare forearms on it to look at Nate Morris.

  She had round, firm-fleshed arms, and strong, blunt-fingered hands. She said, “Good evening, stranger,” and her mouth smiled at him though her eyes remained somber. Her voice was low and grave but it pulsed with that same impression of vitality that he had noted in the beginning.

  He dragged off his Stetson and answered her smile, coming forward from the stove. “I’m Nate Morris. Is there a room hereabouts a man could rent for the night?”

  She said, “There isn’t any hotel.” She hesitated before adding, “I have some rooms in the back that I rent out to the train crew. There’s an extra one …”

  He said heartily, “That’ll be fine.” He sat on one of the high stools in front of her and asked, “Could I have a cup of coffee?”

  She nodded and went back to the kitchen. He turned his head slowly to follow her with his eyes. He wondered who she was and what she was doing in Sanctuary Flat. It was a remote and unhappy jumping off place. There was no way in or out of the valley except by the erratic narrow-gauge railroad that ran whenever there was a shipment to be moved. She brought his coffee and said, “I’ll show you the room whenever you’re ready.” She moved to one side and leaned on the counter again, gazing pensively out through a window at the swift-gathering dusk in the valley.

  The two men finished their dinners and filed out, each silently laying a silver dollar in front of her on the counter as they went by. They were young and looked like ordinary waddies, wearing spurs and leather jackets and open-holstered guns.

  The bellowing of the bulls down in the loading pens came through the doorway when they opened it to go out. The woman seemed to shiver slightly, and Nate Morris saw a pulse throbbing in the clean line of her throat.

  He made a gesture and said, “My fellow passengers don’t seem too happy to be here.”

  She turned and went back to the kitchen abruptly, as though he hadn’t spoken; or as though what he said had offended her.

  Morris took a sip of coffee and frowned down at his cup. With the heavy outer door closed, it was very silent inside the cafe. Morris finished his coffee and rolled a cigarette. He lit it and went over to the stove and picked up his valise. As though this were a signal, the woman came out of the kitchen and around the end of the counter. She said, “This way,” and opened a side door leading to the rear.

  Morris went toward her with his valise, saying, “I haven’t paid for my coffee.”

  She said, “You’ll want supper,” holding the door open for him to precede her along a narrow hallway built along the side of the log house. Her voice was remote now, withdrawn, and her lashes were lowered so she didn’t meet his eyes as he passed her.

  It was quite dark in the windowless hallway. She left the door open behind them and enough light came from the dining room to outline the passageway. It made a sharp turn to the left after Morris had gone about twenty feet. The woman was close behind him, and as he hesitated at the turn, she said, “This is the vacant room,” reaching past him to open a door directly in front of him.

  Dusk filtered through an uncurtained window at the opposite side of the small room. Morris stepped aside to let her enter in front of him, and she struck a match on the door facing as she went in. The air inside the room was cold and stale. She moved to a rude chest of drawers at one side and put flame to a short candle sitting in a saucer.

  There was a small wood stove in one corner of the room, a straight chair and a narrow built-in bed. She went to the stove and crouched before it to strike another match on the bare floor, saying over her shoulder, “I keep a fire laid in the stove but I didn’t know there’d be anyone here tonight.”

  She touched fire to a twist of paper protruding from an open damper at the front of the stove. The flame was sucked in greedily, and pine kindling crackled hearteningly.

  Nate Morris stepped inside the small room and set his valise at the head of the bed. The woman got up slowly from her crouching position in front of the stove. She seemed suddenly aged and weary, as though all the resilient strength had ebbed from her splendid body since he had first seen her in the dining room. The flickering yellow light from the candle cast shadows across her face, making it look drawn and haggard. She faced him for a moment without speaking, regarding him with somber intentness.

  Heat from the small stove began to fill the room and the fire was a low, comforting roar behind her. Nate Morris tore his eyes away from her searching gaze and got cigarette papers and tobacco from his pocket. He said, “This will be fine.” And then, carefully forming a cigarette, “You haven’t told me your name.”

  “I’m Karen Larson.” She clasped her hands together in front of her. “Will you be in Sanctuary Flat long?”

  He said, “That depends,” and lit his cigarette.

  “On what?” There was a throbbing note of impatience in her voice.

  Nate Morris blew out a cloud of smoke and smiled widely. It was an ingenuous, friendly sort of smile, but Karen Larson did not respond to it.

  “A lot of things,” he said quietly. “Have you been here long?”

  She said, “Yes,” unclasping her hands and making a nervous gesture. “I must get back to the kitchen.” She hurried past him and he turned his head to watch her.

  She hesitated in the doorway and turned back. Her voice was strong and throaty again, though her eyes remained dolorous. “The room will be two dollars … in advance.”

  He said, “It’s well worth that,” and unbuttoned his mackinaw to reach into his hip pocket.

  Karen said, “You can pay me when you have supper,” and turned and went down the passage.

  He stood very still and listened to the firm tread of her retreating footsteps. He didn’t move until he heard the door into the dining room close. Then he closed his own door and dropped a wooden bar into place. He hesitated and glanced across at the single window, then walked across to peer out. It was already quite dark outside. He could faintly see the dim outline of towering mountains rising from the floor of the valley not more than a mile away. There were no curtains at the window, no shade that could be drawn.

  He went back to his valise and opened it, got out a folded woolen shirt and carried it back to the window. By unbuttoning the shirt and hooking it over a small protruding stub in one of the logs, he contrived to cover the opening so no one could see in from the outside.

  The small room was becoming quite hot. He knelt and closed the damper in front of the stove, then went back to the bed, drawing a pair of silver-mounted pistols from canvas holsters cunningly sewed inside the slanting pockets of his mackinaw. His face was bleak as he laid the guns on the bed and shucked off the heavy coat.

  He rummaged inside his valise and got out a leather harness which he slipped over his shoulders and buckled tightly around his chest. The leather harness carried two armpit holsters into which he fitted the silver-mounted weapons.

  He got a short leather jacket from his valise and slipped into it, buttoning the two bottom buttons so the strap across his chest was hidden, but leaving the top of the jacket open to permit a fast shoulder draw with either hand.

  He folded his mackinaw neatly and laid it across the foot of the bed, unbarred the door and opened it, then blew out the candle and went out to get acquainted with Sanctuary Flat.

  2

  Three kerosene lamps swinging from unhewed log rafters lighted the interior of the saloon next door to Karen Larson’s cafe. Inside the conventional swinging doors was a small entry closed by a second solid door to keep out the cold.

  Nate Morris pushed the second door open and walked in. A blast of foul, hot air struck him in the face. The saloon was about fifte
en feet wide and twenty feet long. The bar, running the length of the room, consisted of a single huge log, split in the middle to give a flat surface more than two feet wide and supported by four short lengths of sawed logs ranged along the floor.

  Two groups of men stood at the bar when Morris walked in. Three men were close together at the far end, leaning on the bar with whisky glasses in front of them. Ten feet separated them from the group of five at the near end.

  The largest group consisted of Henderson and his two helpers from the railroad pens, and the two young punchers whom Morris had seen in the cafe. The three at the other end were strangers to him. The bartender was a thin little man, bald-headed, with a long hooked nose. He sat on a high stool at the end of the bar and surveyed the newcomer out of watery blue eyes as the door closed behind Morris.

  Henderson turned to look at him and raised a big hand with a hearty smile of welcome. “Come on in, Norris. I’m settin’ up the drinks.”

  “The name’s Morris,” Nate said. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  One of Henderson’s hands, a tall, saturnine fellow with close-set eyes, moved aside to make room for him at the bar. The bartender slid off his stool to set a glass and a bottle of red whisky in front of him.

  “Been gettin’ fixed up with Mrs. Larson?” Henderson asked as Morris poured a drink.

  Morris said, “She’s letting me have a room for tonight.”

  “Didn’t need to do that,” Henderson reproved him genially. “Meant to tell you we could fix you up out to the ranch. Don’t often have visitors on Sanctuary Flat from the outside.”

  Morris said, “Thanks just the same.” He lifted his glass and nodded. “Mud in your eye.” He drank and set the empty glass down.

  He looked down along the bar as he did so, and met three pair of eyes regarding him with smoldering but undisguised hostility. Two of the three men were heavily bearded, with black, untrimmed whiskers. They were big, hulking men, well over six feet in height, and looked like twins, dressed exactly alike to accentuate the impression. They wore long shaggy wolfskin coats reaching below their knees, and round, coonskin caps that came down low on their foreheads. The third man was younger and slighter, cleanly shaved except for a luxuriant black mustache. His head was bare, showing coarse, black hair as long as a woman’s, pulled back smoothly from his face and tied in a knot at the back of his head with a buckskin thong. He wore a short goatskin jacket with the hair on the outside, and breeches with tight legs that appeared to be made out of beautifully tanned calfskin. A wide cartridge belt was slung over his right shoulder supporting a holstered .45 under his left arm. He was scowling venomously down the bar, and his eyes showed the same hatred as his two bearded companions.