Riders of the Dawn

by Louis L'Amour

  “He was my enemy, anyway. That he is a bad enemy, I know. I think another friend of yours found that out.”

  She looked up quickly, real fear in her eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “Your friend, D’Arcy. He comes of a family that does not frighten easily. Did you ever have a note of acknowledgment from him?”

  “No.”

  “Strange. I’d have said such a man would never neglect such an obvious courtesy.”

  We stood together then, looking out at the night and the desert, no words between us but needing no words, our hearts beating together, our blood moving together, feeling the newness of love discovered. The cottonwood leaves brushed their pale green hands together, and their muted whispering seemed in tune with our own thoughts. This was my woman. The one I would walk down the years with. The leaves said that and my blood said it, and I knew the same thoughts were in her, reluctant as she might be to admit it.

  “This trouble will pass,” I said softly, taking her hand, “as the night will pass, and, when it has gone, and the winds have blown the dust away, then I shall take you to Cottonwood Wash … to live.” Her hand stayed in mine, and I continued. “We’ll build something there to last down the years until this will all seem a bad dream, a nightmare dissipated by the morning sunlight.”

  “But could you ever settle down? Could you stay?”

  “Of course. Men don’t wander for the love only of wandering. They wander because they are in search of something. A place of one’s own, a girl, a job accomplished. It is only you who has mattered since the day I rode into the streets of Hattan’s Point and saw you there.”

  Turning toward her, I took her by the elbows and her breath caught, then came quickly and deeply, her lips parted slightly as she came into my arms, and I felt her warm body melt against mine, and her lips were warm and seeking, urgent, passionate. My fingers ran into her hair and along her scalp, and her kisses hurt my lips as mine must have hurt hers. All the fighting, all the waiting melted into nothingness then.

  She pulled back suddenly, frightened yet excited, her breast rising and falling as she fought for control. “This isn’t good! We’re … we’re too violent. We’ve got to be more calm.”

  I laughed then, full of the zest of living and loving and seeing the glory of her there in the moonlight. I laughed and took her arms again. “You’re not exactly a calm person.”

  “I?” A flush darkened her face. “Well, all right then. Neither of us is calm.”

  “Need we be?” My hands reached for her, and then I heard someone whistling, and irritably I looked up to hear feet grating on the gravel path.

  It was Canaval. “Better ride,” he said. “I wouldn’t put it past Park to dry-gulch a man.”

  “Canaval!” Olga protested. “How can you say that?”

  His slow eyes turned to her. “You think so, too, ma’am. You always was an uncommon smart girl. You’ve known him for what he was for a mighty long time.” He turned back to me. “Mean what you said back there? About peace and all?”

  “You bet I did. What can we gain by fighting?”

  “You’re right,” Canaval agreed, “but there’ll be bloodshed before it’s over. Pinder won’t quit. He hates Rud Maclaren and now he hates you. He won’t back up or quit.” Canaval turned to Olga. “Let me talk to Sabre alone, will you? There’s something he should know.”

  “All right.” She gave me her hand. “Be careful. And good night.”

  We watched her walk back up the path, and, when my eyes turned back to him, his were surprisingly soft. I could see his expression even in the moonlight. “Reminds me of her mother,” he said quietly.

  “You knew her?” I was surprised.

  “She was my sister.”

  That was something I could never have guessed.

  “She doesn’t know,” he explained. “Rud and I used to ride together. I was too fast with a gun and killed a man with too many relatives. I left and Rud married my sister. From time to time we wrote, and, when Rud was having trouble with rustlers, I came out to lend a hand. He persuaded me to stay.”

  He looked around at me. “One thing more. What did you mean about the Slades?”

  So I told him in detail of my trip to Silver Reef, the killing of Lyell, and the conversation I’d overheard between Park and Booker. Where I had heard the conversation, I did not tell him, and only said there was some deal between the two of them that depended upon results to be obtained by Morgan Park.

  It was after midnight when I finally left the Bar M, turning off the main trail and cutting across country for the head of Gypsum Cañon.

  *

  Mulvaney was waiting for me. “Knowed the horse’s walk,” he explained. Nodding toward the hills, he added, “Too quiet out there.”

  The night was clear, wide, and peaceful. Later, during the night, I awakened with a start, the sound of a shot ringing in my ears. Mulvaney was sleeping soundly, so I did not disturb him. Afterward, all was quiet, so I dropped off to sleep once more.

  In the morning I mentioned it to Mulvaney.

  “Did you get up?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Went out in the yard and listened, but heard nothing more. Could have been a hunter. Maybe one of the Benaras boys.”

  Two hours later I knew better. Riding past Maverick Spring, I saw the riderless horse grazing near a dark bundle that lay on the grass. The dark bundle was Rud Maclaren, and he was dead. He had been shot twice from behind, both shots through the head. He was sprawled on his face, both hands above his head, one knee drawn up. Both guns were in their holsters, and his belt gun was tied down. After one look, I stood back and fired three shots as a signal to Mulvaney.

  When he saw Maclaren, his face went white and he looked up. “You shouldn’t have done it, boy. The country hated him but they respected him, too. They’ll hang a man for this!”

  “Don’t be foolish!” I was irritated but appalled, too. “I didn’t do this! Feel of him! It must have been that shot I heard last night.”

  “He’s cold, all right. This’ll blow the lid off, Matt. You’d best rig a story for them. And it had better be good!”

  “No rigging. I’ll tell the truth.”

  “They’ll hang you, Matt. They’ll never believe you didn’t do it.” He waved a hand around. “He’s on your place. The two of you have been feudin’. They’ll say you shot him in the back.”

  Standing over the body with the words of Mulvaney in my ears, I could see with piercing clarity the situation I was in. What could he have been doing here? Why would he come to my ranch in the middle of the night?

  I could see their accusing eyes when the death was reported, the shock to Olga, the reaction of the people, the accusations of Park. Somebody wanted Maclaren dead enough to shoot him in the back. Who?

  VIII

  Strangely the morning was cool with a hint of rain. Mulvaney, at my request, had gone to the Bar M to tell Canaval of the killing, and it was up to Canaval to tell Olga. I did not like to think of that. My luck held in one sense, for Jolly Benaras came riding up the wash, and I asked him to ride to Hattan’s Point to report to Key Chapin.

  Covering the body with a tarp, I mounted and began to scout the area. How much time I had, I did not know, but it could not be much. Soon they would be arriving from Hattan’s Point, and even sooner from the Bar M. One thing puzzled me. There had been but one shot fired, but there were two bullet holes in Maclaren’s skull.

  Carefully I examined the sand under the body and was struck by a curious thing. There was no blood! None on the sand, that is. There was plenty of blood on Rud himself, but all of it, strangely enough, seemed to come from one bullet hole. There was a confusion of tracks where his horse had moved about while he lay there on the ground, but at this point the wash was sandy, and no definite track could be distinguished. Then horses’ hoofs sounded, and I looked up to see five riders coming toward me. The nearest was Canaval, and, beside him, Olga. The others were all Bar M riders, and from one glance at their f
aces I knew there was no doubt in their minds and little reason for speculation that I had killed Rud Maclaren.

  Canaval drew up, and his eyes pierced mine, cold, calculating, and shrewd. Olga threw herself from her horse and ran to the still form on the ground. She had refused to meet my eyes or to notice me.

  “This looks bad, Canaval. When did he leave the ranch?”

  He studied me carefully, as if he were seeing me for the first time. “I don’t know exactly,” he said. “No one heard him go. He must have pulled out sometime after two this morning.”

  “The shot I heard was close to four.”

  “One shot?”

  “Only one … but he’s been shot twice.” Hesitating a little, I asked, “Who was with him when you last saw him?”

  “He was alone. If it’s Morgan Park you are thinkin’ of, forget it. He left right after you did. When I last saw Rud, he was goin’ to his room, feelin’ mighty sleepy.”

  The Bar M riders were circling around. Their faces were cold and they started an icy chill coming up my spine. These men were utterly loyal, utterly ruthless when aroused. The night before they had given me the benefit of the doubt, but now they saw no reason to think of any other solution but the obvious one.

  Tom Fox, a lean, hard-bitten Bar M man, was staring at me. Coolly he took a rope from his pommel. “What we waitin’ for, men?” he asked bitterly. “There’s our man.”

  Turning, I said, “Fox, from what I hear you’re a good man and a good hand. Don’t jump to any hasty conclusions. I didn’t kill Rud Maclaren and had no reason to. We made peace talk last night and parted in good spirits.”

  Fox looked up at Canaval. “That right?”

  Canaval hesitated, his expression unchanging. Then he spoke clearly. “It is … but Rud Maclaren changed his mind afterward.”

  “Changed his mind?” That I couldn’t believe, yet at the expression in Canaval’s eyes, I knew he was speaking the truth. “Even so,” I added, “how could I be expected to know that? When I left, all was friendly.”

  “You couldn’t know it,” Canaval agreed, “unless he got out of bed an’ came to tell you. He might have done that, and I can think of no other reason for him to come here. He came to tell you … an’ you killed him when he started away.”

  The hands growled and Fox shook out a loop. It was Olga who stopped them. “No! Wait until the others arrive. If he killed my father, I want him to die! But wait until the others come.”

  Reluctantly Fox drew in his rope and coiled it. Sweat broke out on my forehead. I could fight, and I would if it came to that, but these men only believed they were doing the right thing. They had no idea that I was innocent. My mouth was dry and my hands felt cold. I tried to catch Olga’s eye but she ignored me. Canaval seemed to be studying something, but he did not speak a word.

  The first one to arrive was Key Chapin, and behind him a dozen other men. He looked at me, a quick, worried glance, and then looked at Canaval. Without waiting for questions, the foreman quietly repeated what had happened, telling of the entire evening, facts that could not until then have been known to the men.

  “There’s one thing,” I said suddenly, “that I want to call to your attention.”

  They looked at me, but there was not a friendly eye in the lot of them. Looking around the circle of their faces, I felt a cold sinking in my stomach, and a feeling came over me. Matt Sabre, I was telling myself, this is the end. You’ve come to it at last, and you’ll hang for another man’s crime.

  Not one friendly face—and Mulvaney had not returned with the Bar M riders. There was no sign of Jolly Benaras.

  “Chapin,” I asked, “will you turn Maclaren over?”

  The request puzzled them, and they looked from me to the covered body, then to Chapin. He swung down and walked across to the dead man. I heard Olga’s breath catch, and then Chapin rolled Maclaren on his back.

  He straightened up then, still puzzled. The others looked blankly at me.

  “The reason you are so quick to accuse me is that he is here, on my ranch. Well, he was not killed here. There’s no blood on the ground.”

  Startled, they all looked. Before any comment could be made, I continued, “One of the wounds bled badly, and the front of his shirt is dark with blood. The sand would be, too, if he’d been killed here. What I am saying is that he was killed elsewhere, then carried here!”

  “But why?” Chapin protested.

  Canaval said, “You mean to throw guilt onto you?”

  “I sure do mean that. Also, that shot I heard fired was shot into him after he was dead.”

  Fox shook his head, and sneered, “How could you figure that?”

  “A dead man does not bleed. Look at him. All the blood came from one wound.”

  Suddenly we heard more horsemen, and Mulvaney returned with his guns and the Benaras boys. Not one, but all of them.

  Coolly they moved up to the edge of the circle.

  “We’d be beholden,” the elder Benaras said loudly, “if you’d all move back. We’re friends to Sabre, an’ we don’t believe he done it. Now give him air an’ listen.”

  They hesitated, not liking it. But their common sense told them that, if trouble started now, it would be a bloody mess. Carefully the nearest riders eased back. Whether Olga was listening, I had no idea. Yet it was she who I wanted most to convince.

  “There are other men with axes to grind beside the Pinders and I,” I said. “What had I to fear from Rud? Already I had shown I could take care of myself against all of them. Face to face, I was twice the man Rud was.”

  “You talk yourself up mighty well,” Fox said.

  “You had your chance in the cañon,” I said brutally, “and, when I say I can hold this ranch, you know I’m not lying.”

  Horses came up the trail and the first faces I recognized were Bodie Miller and the redhead I’d whipped at the Two Bar. Bodie pushed his horse into the circle when he saw me. The devil was riding Bodie again, and I could see from Canaval’s face that he knew it.

  Right at the moment Bodie was remembering how I had dared him to gamble at point-blank range. “You, is it?” he said. “I’ll kill you one day.”

  “Keep out of this, Bodie!” Canaval ordered sharply.

  Miller’s dislike was naked in his eyes. “Rud’s dead now,” he said. “Mebbe you won’t be the boss anymore. Mebbe she’ll want a younger man for boss!”

  The import of his words was like a blow across the face. Suddenly I wanted to kill him, suddenly I was going to. Canaval’s voice was a cool breath of air through my fevered brain. “That will be for Miss Olga to decide.” He turned to her. “Do you wish me to continue as foreman?”

  “Naturally.” Her voice was cold and even, and in that moment I was proud of her. “And your first job will be to fire Bodie Miller!”

  Miller’s face went white with fury, and his lips bared back from his teeth. Before he could speak, I interfered. “Don’t say it, Bodie! Don’t say it!” I stepped forward to face him across Maclaren’s body.

  The malignancy of his expression was unbelievable. “You an’ me are goin’ to meet,” he said, staring at me.

  “When you’re ready, Bodie.” Deliberately, not wanting the fight here, now, I turned my back on him.

  Chapin and Canaval joined me while the men loaded the body into a buckboard. “We don’t think you’re guilty, Sabre. Have you any ideas?”

  “Only that I believe he was killed elsewhere and carried here to cast blame on me. I don’t believe it was Pinder. He would never shoot Maclaren in the back.”

  “You think Park did it?” Canaval demanded.

  “Peace between myself and Maclaren would be the last thing he’d want,” I said.

  Bob Benaras was waiting for me. “You can use Jonathan an’ Jolly,” he said. “I ain’t got work enough to keep ’em out of mischief.”

  He was not fooling me in the least. “Thanks. I can use them to spell Mulvaney on lookout, and there’s plenty of work to do.”
/>   *

  For two weeks we worked hard, and the inquest of Rud Maclaren turned up nothing new. There had been no will, so the ranch went to Olga. Yet nothing was settled. Some people believed I had killed Maclaren, most of them did not know, but the country was quiet.

  Of Bodie Miller we heard much. He killed a man at Hattan’s Point in a saloon quarrel, shot him before he could get his hand on a gun. Bodie and his riding partner, Red, were riding with a lot of riffraff from Hite. The Bar M was missing cattle and Bodie laughed when he heard it. He pistol-whipped a man in Silver Reef, and wounded a man while driving off the posse that came after him.

  I worried more about Morgan Park. I had to discover just what his plan was. My only chance was to follow Park every hour of the day and night. I must know where he went, what he was doing, with whom he was talking. One night I waited on a hill above Hattan’s Point, watching the house where he lived when in town.

  When he came out of the house, I could feel the hackles rising on the back of my neck. There was something about him that would always stir me to fury, and it did now. Stifling it, I watched him go to Mother O’Hara’s, watched him mount up, and ride out of town on the Bar M road. Yet scarcely a dozen miles from town he drew up and scanned his back trail. Safely outside of view, I watched him. Apparently satisfied with what he did not see, he turned right along the ridge, keeping under cover. He now took a course that led him into the wildest and most remote corner of the Bar M, that neck of land north of my own and extending far west. His trail led him out upon Dark Cañon Plateau. Knowing little of this area, I closed the distance between us until I saw him making camp.

  Before daylight he was moving again. The sun rose and the day became hot, with a film of heat haze obscuring all the horizons. He seemed headed toward the northwest where the long line of the Sweet Alice Hills ended the visible world. This country was a maze of cañons. To the south it fell away in an almost sheer precipice for hundreds of feet to the bottom of Dark Cañon. There were trails off the plateau, but I knew none of them.

  The view was breathtaking, overlooking miles of columned and whorled sandstone, towering escarpments, minarets, and upended ledges. This had once been inhabited country for there were ruins of cliff dwellings about, and Indian writings.