by C. M. Curtis
“Then it’s fortunate I haven’t come to visit you,” Catherine said. “I’m here to see your wife and I would appreciate it if you would announce me.”
Martha Tannatt appeared in the doorway behind her husband. Stepping past him she said, “Welcome to my home Mrs. Marcellin, please come in.” Her drawn paleness and the darkness below her eyes attested to her grief, but she had hastily brushed her hair, and she smiled as she spoke. “Thank you for coming: you’re welcome here.”
Emil Tannatt suddenly found words, and they were angry ones. “No, she isn’t welcome. She’s a Marcellin and no Marcellin is welcome on the Double T. Last night our boy was laid out on that table in there, and this morning we put him under the dirt. Have you already forgot that? And have you forgot it was the Marcellin’s who put him there?”
Catherine Marcellin looked up at Tannatt, her eyes flashing “Yesterday your boy was killed, so I suppose you’ll have to ride to the Circle M and shoot somebody else’s boy for revenge.”
Tannatt’s lower lip was quivering as he tried to keep a rein on his emotions. He practically hurled the words at her, “It wouldn’t surprise me one bit!”
Catherine replied, and her voice grew louder as her words gathered momentum, “And then the Circle M men will have to ride over here and shoot some of you, then you’ll have to ride over and shoot some more of them, then people will start taking sides, and everybody will start shooting everybody else, and as far as I’m concerned you men can ride all around the world having wars, and gunfights, and shooting each other until you’ve all been shot, and then maybe,” she was shouting now, “maybe we women can have a little peace. But meanwhile, Emil Tannatt, I won’t tell you who you can shoot, and by thunder, don’t you dare tell me who I can visit!”
Martha Tannatt had observed the exchange wide-eyed, and was now amazed to see her husband step backward to lean against the house. The expression on his face had changed to one that mingled acceptance of defeat and respect.
As though she had expected nothing less, Catherine turned to Reef and said in a calm voice, “Bring those two baskets from the buggy.” To Martha Tannatt she said, “I brought lunch and supper. You shouldn’t have to cook today.”
Martha smiled sweetly. “Thank you Catherine, how thoughtful.” And she escorted Catherine into the house past Emil, who had removed his hat.
It was just getting light when Jeff left town, following Fogarty’s now cold trail. He paused for a moment when he struck the trail of the five Double T riders who had ridden on the Circle M the day before. As he sat on his horse, looking down at the tracks, it seemed strange to him that four of the men who had made them were now dead. Soon the wind would come, or the rain, and the tracks would be gone too. In a short time even the men who made them would be forgotten. It seemed a sad thought to Jeff, and he realized it would have been no different if he had died yesterday. The thought brought to him a sense of insignificance and aloneness, and he thought of Ben Houk’s words of the night before. He tried to disagree with them; life has to be what a man makes it, he told himself. He asked himself what he had made of his own, and he thought of Anne and wondered what he had done to make her stop loving him.
A horsefly bit him on the back of the hand and interrupted his thoughts. Jeff shifted his attention back to Fogarty’s trail and moved on.
Fogarty had taken great pains to ensure he was not followed. The tracks showed he had stopped frequently, and had, no doubt, turned in the saddle, watching his back trail for long minutes as Jeff had seen him do yesterday.
When Jeff saw where the trail was leading him, he was surprised. The mountains that rimmed this huge valley were vast and formidable and at the south end of the valley they formed a barrier that was generally considered to be impassable with the exception of a few dangerous trails which could only be negotiated by a man with a sure footed horse and a stout heart. The brakes of the mountain range were a daunting barrier in themselves; a vast unmapped maze of steep-sided canyons and brush-choked draws, they were a cowboy’s nightmare. Jeff could think of no reason why anyone would want to go in there, unless it was to keep from being found. And for that purpose, he could think of no more suitable place.
Fogarty’s trail led around the base of a huge bluff that jutted out into the center of a narrow canyon. On the far side of the bluff Jeff saw where Fogarty had turned his horse into a small draw and dismounted. Jeff did the same, tying his horse to the same scrubby tree to which Fogarty’s had been tied. He followed the boot prints up the side of the steep hill and on to the top of the bluff. There, behind a low, flat brow of rocks, he saw where Fogarty had lain on his stomach, watching. Even the imprint of the butt of his rifle stock was still visible in the dirt. Scattered around the small area were the brown butts of five cigarettes. Not only was Fogarty a cautious man, he was a patient one as well, and disinclined to allow himself to be followed. How long, Jeff wondered, does it take a man to smoke five cigarettes? Long enough, he knew, for him to have ridden by and been shot off the back of his horse.
He realized if he hadn’t seen the Double T riders riding toward the Circle M yesterday, or if he had continued on his way rather than riding after them, Fogarty would have killed him. He smiled at the irony of it. In saving Jim Marcellin’s life, he had unwittingly saved his own.
He returned to his horse and got back on the trail. Farther up the canyon he discovered why Fogarty had chosen this route. Here, soft dirt gave way to solid rock, and the trail became difficult, and at times nearly impossible to follow. He was always grateful at times like this for the things Amado had taught him.
The terrain was becoming increasingly rugged, and Jeff gained a grudging respect for Fogarty. The man knew how to hide a trail. But finally, as if satisfied the precautions he had taken were enough, Fogarty had entered a soft grassy area, and from there Jeff had no further difficulty keeping sight of the tracks.
Soon the tracks led to a trail that showed signs of frequent travel by horses and cattle. Jeff dismounted and walked around, examining all the trail signs. Some were recent and some were as much as a year or two old. There could be only one explanation for all this—rustlers. Honest cattlemen would be moving cattle out of a place like this, not into it. Moreover, Fogarty’s mere presence here bespoke illegal activities. But cattle are no good to rustlers unless they can be sold, and in order to be sold they must be driven to another place. It was common knowledge that there were no useful trails out of the valley at this end. To move cattle to market from here, the rustlers would be forced to cross every major ranch in the valley. Even Rand Fogarty would not be so bold. The chances of escaping detection were zero.
It was well after dark when Jeff finally decided to stop and make camp. He had followed the well-worn trail deep into the brakes until he decided his horse, now showing signs of fatigue, had had enough for one day. Although he craved a hot meal and some coffee, he refrained from building a fire, not knowing how close he was to the rustler’s camp.
At first light he was already back in the saddle. Following the trail through these brakes was like following a string through a maze; it twisted and turned and threaded its way through a tangle of deep, sandy-floored canyons and shallow, brush-filled draws, crossing areas of barren rock, dry and inhospitable, and lush green meadows with flowing water and abundant wildlife. It had been slow going yesterday because the trail had been so difficult to follow and he had lost it so many times, but this trail was so well traveled a man could follow it blindfolded, and by midmorning he found himself at what appeared to be its end: a large grassy meadow in a bowl-shaped basin. The grass was cropped short from recent grazing, and the ground was dotted with cattle droppings, some fresh, some dry. Some, he could tell, had lain beneath the snows for at least one season, indicating the basin had been used before this year. “But why would anyone bring cattle to this remote place, and where had they gone to?”
Something in the far corner of the basin caught his attention and he put the horse across the meadow
at a trot. As he approached the spot, the mystery in his mind was resolved. Here, he saw a narrow cleft in the rock, perhaps ten feet wide. He entered and saw that it immediately widened into a vertical-sided canyon of varying width, the sandy floor of which bore the tracks of cattle and horses. As he penetrated deeper into the canyon the rock walls grew higher and the interior more gloomy. In places the walls bore Indian petroglyphs, which recorded ancient tales and messages he could not interpret.
The floor of the canyon was not always smooth, and at one place there was a sharp break in it, creating a ledge about four feet high. Here, rocks had been piled and logs had been laid on top, and had been carefully packed in with dirt, creating a ramp. There were places where brush had been cleared away from the passage, and boulders rolled to the side. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make this canyon passable. The canyon did not wind like the ones in the brakes, but curved gently to the south for a long way, then abruptly made a sharp bend to the north. Rounding this last turn, Jeff saw an opening and realized he had ridden directly through the mountain.
The mouth of the canyon at this end opened onto a large green meadow, which was bisected by a small stream. A brush corral had been constructed at one end of the meadow with steep, rocky walls forming the other three sides, creating a large pasture. Opposite the pasture, there were several lean-tos in which Jeff found some cooking implements and tack.
There were two horses in the pasture, and this gave Jeff cause to wonder. He sat there on his horse for several minutes, his senses straining to catch any sight, sound, or smell that may indicate the presence of someone else in the area. Finally, he moved across to the remains of what had undoubtedly been a branding fire and dismounted to check it. It was plain to see the rustlers used this place often, but the fire and other signs he found told him they had left on the previous day. He walked over to the pasture, leading his horse, and looked over the two horses within. They both wore the Double T brand.
Jeff considered this for a moment. On the surface it would seem that the Double T was doing the rustling, but there were still some things that needed explaining, such as Fogarty’s involvement in it. He was obviously involved, and if Fogarty was connected to the Double T, so was Stewart.
Then, another thought occurred to Jeff. He liked it better and hoped it was true: Perhaps the Double T was not involved at all and the horses had been stolen. But if that was the case, why had they been left here? The cattle had obviously been pushed through the mountain into this meadow where their brands were altered, and from here, they were probably being driven south to Stewart’s ranch. Why, then, had the two horses been left behind?
Jeff unsaddled his pony and turned it in to the pasture to graze for a while and to drink from the brook, while he ate lunch from his meager supplies. Afterwards, he washed up and refilled his canteen from the sweet waters of the brook. He re-saddled his horse and began following the trail the rustlers had taken with their stolen cattle.
By all appearances the brakes on this side of the mountain were no less vast and confusing than those on the other side, but he was following an easy trail and he made good time, soon finding himself in open country. Here the trail merged with another trail; one that led north and south. Though Jeff had never been on this one, he knew what trail it was. Northward, it led around the tail of the mountain and into the valley, and southward it led beyond the mountains to where trails forked off in several directions including south to Jeff’s home range. This trail was more rugged and circuitous than the one Jeff had followed into the valley the year before when he had stumbled into the camp of the ill-starred Gordon Stone and Billy Dell.
He surveyed the surrounding terrain, searching for a landmark he could use to locate the trail to the pass—if he ever needed to—from this side of the mountain. He found one: a uniquely formed boulder with a dome-shaped top. Marking this location in his mind, he turned his horse and retraced his path back to the rustler’s pass. As he approached it from this side, he understood why it had remained a secret for so long. The opening at this end of the canyon, like the one at the other, was only apparent from close up; appearing from a distance to be a mere indentation in the rock.
Night was fast approaching and Jeff considered what to do. He was tired and so was his horse, but he was out of food and anxious to get back. He roped the two Double T horses and switched his saddle and bridle to one of them. He made two rope hackamores, then broke down a part of the brush fence, making it look like the horses had done it. When the outlaws returned, he didn’t want them to know their hideout had been discovered. He led the two horses through the break in the fence and went back and brushed away his own tracks. A good tracker wouldn’t be fooled, but he was hoping none of the rustlers would be suspicious enough to give the matter much scrutiny. Moreover, he knew it would probably rain at least once, maybe more, before the outlaws returned, and would wipe away all tracks.
And so, riding one horse and leading the other two, he headed back through the pass.
Chapter 15
Jim Marcellin was trying hard to stay angry with his mother. She had a frustrating way of making him feel he was being unreasonable even when he was sure he was in the right. Hank had awakened him that afternoon when it was discovered Catherine and Reef were gone. On questioning, Felipe had disclosed that Catherine had left in the buggy during Shorty’s burial, and that Reef had left alone some time later, apparently following Catherine. Dolores, ever true to her mistress, had refused to say anything.
By the time the discovery was made, Marcellin knew it was too late to go after the pair; they would have already arrived at the Double T headquarters. He was sure Emil Tannatt would not harm Catherine, and he was equally sure Catherine would see to it that no harm came to Reef. The only thing to do was to wait. Any other action could ignite the powder keg.
But now that the two strays had returned to the Circle M, Marcellin was trying to feel in control of something for the first time that day and it wasn’t working.
“I believe I’m old enough,” asserted Catherine, “to come and go as I please without asking permission of my son.”
“You don’t have to ask permission to come and go, Mother, but surely you knew it wasn’t a good idea to go to the Double T.”
“I merely went to visit a friend; there can’t be anything wrong in that.”
“Then why did you sneak off?”
“Do you ask my permission to visit friends? Am I a prisoner here on this ranch? Am I so old now that I’m not competent to make my own decisions? The next thing I know, you’ll be putting a chain on my door and locking me in.”
“Now, Mother, I don’t think I treat you that badly.”
“Have you ever heard me complain?”
“No,” he replied, “but . . .”
Catherine interrupted, “I’m not unhappy with our life here, Jim; are you?”
“Of course not, Mother, that’s not the . . .”
She interrupted again, “It’s alright, Jim; you’re still weak from your wounds. You’re tired and in a bad humor. I can understand that. Your father used to get that way too. I just learned to ignore it and when he felt better things would be fine again.”
Marcellin hesitated, knowing he had utterly lost control of the conversation and did not know how to regain it. Taking advantage of his hesitation, Catherine ended the discussion. “I’m tired too dear; it’s been a long day. I’m going to bed now, and I suggest you do the same. Good night.” She kissed him on the forehead and turned toward the hallway to her bedroom.
As she walked away she added, “Oh, by the way; Martha Tannatt’s coming over next week. We’re going to do some quilting. She’s a dear. Did you know she was born and raised just 30 miles from where I grew up?”
Sheriff Alvah Beeman had had a busy day and had stopped at the Red Stallion for a drink. Afterwards he was planning to go to his office and do some paperwork before going home for the night.
“See you tomorrow,” he said to Charley Lo
vell. Charley nodded, and Beeman pushed through the bat winged doors into the warm night air. As he left the saloon he was hailed by a man on horseback who apparently had just ridden into town.
Beeman recognized him as Seth Blake, the foreman of the Double T.
Seth reined in, stepped down from the saddle and began using his hat to beat the dust off of his shirt and pants. “Don’t seem like it’d be too much to ask for it to rain once in a while around here. Knock some of this dust down.”
“Yeah,” said the sheriff, “and the streets here in town turn into bogs. You can’t win either way.”
“Rather ride through it than eat it.”
“You got a point there.”
“Mr. Tannatt sent me in, Sheriff, wanted me to give you a message.”
Beeman looked at him expectantly.
“He says he’ll listen to what Marcellin has to say tomorrow, but he makes no other promises. He wants you to be there, and anyone who was involved in the fight or witnessed it. He’ll be there with Sid Wilkins.”
“That’s fair,” said Beeman, “if he means it. I don’t want any tricks.”
“Emil’s a hard man but he’s true to his word, Sheriff, you know that.”
Beeman nodded. “All right, I’ll arrange it.”
“When and where?” asked Seth.
“Nine o’clock in the morning, Sunset Ridge.”
“I’ll tell him Sheriff; I reckon he’ll be there.”
“I’ll ride out to Marcellin’s tonight,” said Beeman. Then he added, “Let me buy you a beer. It’ll wash down some of that dust.”
The two men stepped into the Red Stallion and up to the bar. They ordered beers, and when they came, Seth drank deeply, put his mug down and breathed out a satisfied sigh.