the Rider Of Ruby Hills (1986)

by L'amour, Louis

  Not the last to hear it was Walt Pogue, who chuckled and slapped his heavy thigh. "Wouldn't you know it? That old four-flusher! Crooked as a dog's hind leg!"

  The next thing that occurred to anyone, occurred to him. How did Ross Haney know?

  The thought drew Pogue up to a standstill. Haney knew too much. Who was Haney? If he knew that, he might- But no! That didn't necessarily follow. Still, Ross Haney was going to be a good friend to have, and a bad enemy.

  Not the least of the talk concerned Haney's confidence, the way he had stood there and dared Berdue to draw. Overnight, Haney had become the most talked about man in the Ruby Hills.

  When gathering his information about the Ruby Hills country, Ross Haney had gleaned some other information that was of great interest. That information was what occupied his mind on his first morning in Soledad.

  So far, in his meandering around the country, and he had done more of it than anyone believed, he had had no opportunity to verify this final fragment of information. But now he intended to do it. From what he had overheard, the country north and west of the mountains was a badlands that was avoided by all. It was a lava country, broken and jagged, and there was much evidence of prehistoric volcanic action, so much so that riding there was a danger always, and walking was the surest way to ruin a pair of boots.

  Yet at one time there had been a man who knew the lava beds and all of that badlands country that occupied some three hundred square miles stretching north and west across the state line. That man had been Jim Burge.

  It had been Jim Burge who had told Charlie Hastings, Reynolds' ill-fated partner, about the Ruby Hills country, and it had been Jim Burge who had first driven a herd of Spanish cattle into the Ruby Hills. But Burge had tired of ranching and headed north, leaving his ranch and turning his horses loose. His cattle had already been gone.

  Gone, that is, into the badlands. Burge knew where they were, but cattle were of no use without a market, and there was no market anywhere near. Burge decided he wanted to move and he wanted quick money, so he left the country, taking only a few of the best horses with him.

  He had talked to Charlie Hastings, and Hastings talked to Chalk Reynolds, but Jim Burge was already gone. Gone east into the Texas Panhandle and a lone hand fight with Comanches that ended with four warriors dead and with Jim Burge's scalp hanging from the belt of another. But Jim Burge had talked to other people in Santa Fe, and the others did not forget, either. One of these had talked to Ross Haney, and Ross was a curious man.

  When he threw his saddle on the Appaloosa, he was planning to satisfy that curiosity. He was going to find out what had become of those cattle.

  Nine years had passed since Burge had left them to shift for themselves. In nine years several hundred cattle can do pretty well for themselves.

  "There's water in those badlands if you know where to look," Burge had told the man in Santa Fe, "an' there's grass, but you've got to find it." Knowing range cattle, Ross was not worried about them finding it, and if he could find it, he would find them-unless someone else had.

  So he rode out of Soledad down the main trail, and there were many eyes that followed him out. One pair of these belonged to Sherry Vernon, already out and on her horse, drifting over the range, inspecting her cattle and seeing where they fed. She noted the tall rider on the queerly marked horse, and there was a strange leap in her heart as she watched him heading down the trail.

  Was he leaving? For always? The thought gave her a pang, even though remembering the oddly intent look in his eyes and the hard set in his jaw, she knew he would be back.

  Of course, she had heard the story of his meeting with Chalk Reynolds and Sydney Berdue. Berdue had always frightened her, for wherever she turned, his eyes were upon her. They gave her a crawling sensation, not at all like the excitement she drew from the quick, amused eyes of Ross Haney.

  The palouse was a good mountain horse, and ears pricked forward, he stepped out eagerly. The sights and smells were what he knew best and he quickened his step, sure he was coming home.

  Ross Haney knew that with his action of the previous night he was in the center of things whether he liked it or not, and he liked it. From now on he would move fast and with boldness, but not too definitely, for it would pay to keep them puzzled for a few days longer. Things would break between Pogue and Reynolds, especially now that his needling of Reynolds would scare the man into aggressive action.

  Chalk was no fool. He would know how fast talk would spread. It might not be long before embarrassing questions might be asked. The only escape from those questions lay in power. He must put himself beyond questions. Eyes squinted against the glare, Haney thought about that, trying to calculate just what Reynolds would do. It was up to him to strike, and he would strike, or Haney knew nothing of men under pressure.

  The trail he sought showed itself suddenly, just a faint track off to the right through the pinons, and he took it, letting Rio set his own gait.

  It was midafternoon before Ross reached the edge of the lava beds. The great black, tumbled masses seemed without trails or any sign of vegetation. He skirted the lava, searching for some evidence of a trail. It was miserably hot, and the sun threw heat back from the blazing rocks until he felt like he was in an oven. When he was on a direct line between the lava beds and Thousand Springs, he rode back up the mountain, halted, and swung down to give his horse a rest.

  From his saddlebags he took a telescope, a glass he had bought in New Orleans several years before. Sitting down on a boulder while the palouse cropped casually at the dry grass, he began a systematic, inch-by-inch study of the lava beds.

  Only the vaguest sort of plan had formed in his mind for his next step. Everything had been worked out carefully to this point, but from now on his actions depended much upon the actions of Pogue and Reynolds. Yet he did have the beginnings of a plan. If the cattle he sought were still in the lava beds, he intended to brand them one by one and shove bunches of them out into the valley. He was going to use that method to make his bid for the valley range.

  After a half hour of careful study he got up, thrust the glass in his belt, and rode slowly along the hillside, stopping at intervals to continue his examination of the beds. It was almost dusk when he raised up in the stirrups and pointed the glass toward a tall finger of rock that thrust itself high from the beds. At the base of it was a cow, and it was walking slowly toward the northwest!

  Try as he might, Ross could find no trail into the lava beds, so as dusk was near, he turned the palouse and started back toward Thousand Springs. He would try again. At least he knew he was not shooting in the dark. There was at least one cow in that labyrinth of lava, and if there was one, there would certainly be more.

  The trail he had chosen led him up the mesa at Thousand Springs from a little-known route. He wound around through the clumps of pinon until the flat top was reached. Then he rode along slowly, drinking in this beauty that he had chosen for the site of his home. The purple haze had thickened over the hills and darkened among the trees, and deep shadows gathered in the forested notches of the hills while the pines made a dark fringe against a sky still red with the last rose of the sinking sun.

  Below him the mesa broke sharply off and fell for over a hundred feet of sheer rock. Thirty feet from the bottom of the cliff the springs trickled from the fractured rock and covered the rock below with a silver sheen from many small cascades that fell away into the pool.

  Beyond the far edge of the pool, fringed with aspens, the valley was a long sweep of tall grass range, rolling into a dark distance against the mystery of the hills. Ross Haney sat his horse in a place rarely seen by man, for he was doubtful if anyone in many years had mounted the mesa. That he was not the first man here, he knew, for there were Indian relics and the remains of stone houses, ages old. These seemed to have no connection with any cliff dwellings or pueblos he had seen in the past. The building was more ancient and more massive than in Acoma, the Sky City.

  The r
ange below him was the upper end of Ruby Valley and was supposedly under the control of Chalk Reynolds. Actually, Reynolds rarely visited the place, nor did his men. It was far and away at the end of the range he claimed, and the water was available for the cattle when they wished to come to it. Yet here on the rim of the mesa, or slightly back from the rim, Haney had begun to build a ranch house, using the old foundations of the prehistoric builders and many of their stones.

  The floor itself was intact, and he had availed himself of it, sweeping it clean over a wide expanse. He had paced it off and planned his house accordingly, and he had large ideas. Yet for the moment he was intent only on repairing a part of the house to use as his claim shanty.

  There was water here. Water that bubbled from the same source as that of the Thousand Springs. He knew that his water was the same water. Several times he had tried dropping sticks or leaves into the water outside his door, only to find them later in the pool below.

  From where he sat he could with his glass see several miles of trail and watch all who approached him. The trail up the back way was unknown so far as he could find out. Certainly it indicated no signs of use but that of wild game, although it had evidently been used in bygone years.

  To the east and south his view was unobstructed. Below him lay all the dark distance of the valley and the range for which he was fighting. To the north, the mesa broke sharply off and fell away into a deep canyon with a dry wash at its bottom. The side of the canyon across from him was almost as sheer as this and at least a quarter of a mile away.

  The trail led up from the west and through a broken country of tumbled rock, long fingers of lava, and clumps of pinon giving way to aspen and pine. The top of the mesa was at least two hundred acres in extent and absolutely impossible to reach by any known route but the approach he used.

  Returning through the trees to a secluded hollow, Ross swung down and stripped the saddle and bridle from the palouse, then turning it loose. He rarely hobbled or tied the horse, for Rio would come at a call or whistle and never failed to respond at once. But a horse in most cases will not wander far from a campfire, feeding away from it and then slowly feeding back toward it, seeming to like the feeling of comfort as well as a man.

  He built his fire of dry wood and built it with plenty of cover, keeping it small. Even at this height there was danger of its being seen and causing wonder. The last thing he wanted for now was any of the people from the valley to find him out.

  After he had eaten he strolled back to the open ground where the house was taking shape. Part of the ancient rock floor he was keeping for a terrace from which the whole valley could be seen.

  For a long time he stood there, looking off into the darkness and enjoying the cool night air. Then he turned and walked back into the deep shadows of the house. He was standing there, trying to see it as it would appear when complete when he heard a low, distant rumble.

  Suddenly anxious, he listened intently. It seemed to come from within the very rock on which he stood. He waited, listening for the sound to grow. But after a moment it died away to a vague rumble and then disappeared altogether. Puzzled, he walked around for several minutes, waiting and listening, but there was no further sound.

  It was a strange thing, and it disturbed him and left him uneasy as he walked back to his camp. Long after he had rolled in his blankets he lay there puzzling over it. He noted with an odd sense of disquiet that Rio stayed close to him, closer than usual. Of course, there could be another reason for that. There were cougars on the mesa and in the breaks behind it. He had seen their tracks. There were also elk and deer, and twice he had seen bear.

  The country he had chosen was wildly beautiful, a strange lost corner of the land, somehow cut off from the valley by the rampart of Thousand Springs Mesa.

  He awakened suddenly as the sky was growing gray and found himself sitting bolt upright. And then he heard it again, that low, mounting rumble, far down in the rock beneath him, as though the very spirit of the mountain were rolling over in his sleep. Only now the sound was not so plain, it was fainter, farther away.

  Chapter VI

  Hidden Range

  At daybreak Ross rolled out of his blankets, built a fire, and made coffee. While eating, he puzzled over the strange sound he had heard the night before. The only solution that seemed logical was that it came somehow from the springs. It was obvious that forces of some sort were at work deep in the rock of the mesa.

  Obviously, these forces had made no recent change in the contour of the rock itself and so must be insufficient for the purpose. Haney continued with his building, working the morning through.

  Unlike many cowhands, he had always enjoyed working with his hands. Now he had the pleasure of doing something for himself, with the feeling that he was building to last. By noon he had another wall of heavy stone constructed and the house was beginning to take shape.

  He stopped briefly to eat and slipped on his shirt before sitting down. As he buttoned it up, he saw a faint movement far down the Soledad trail. Going to his saddlebags he dug out his glass and took his position in a lookout post among the rocks on the rim. First making sure the sunlight would not reflect from the glass and give him away, he dropped flat among the rocks and pointed the glass down trail.

  The rider's face was still indistinct, but there was something vaguely familiar about him. And then as he drew nearer, Ross saw it was Sydney Berdue.

  What was the Reynolds foreman doing here? Of course, as this was considered RR range, he might be checking the grass or the stock. He rode swiftly, however, and paid no attention to anything around him. When he reached the pool below, he swung down, seated himself on a rock, and lighted a cigarette.

  Waiting for someone.

  The sun felt warm and comfortable on his back after the hard work of the morning, and Ross settled himself comfortably into the warm sand behind the rocks. Thoughtfully, he turned his glass down the trail, but saw no one else. Then he began scanning the country and after a few minutes, picked up another rider. The man rode a sorrel horse with three white stockings and must have approached through the timber as he was not in sight until the last minute. He rode swiftly up to the pool and swung down. The two men shook hands. Puzzled, Ross shifted his glass to the brand.

  The sorrel carried a VV on his shoulder! A Vernon rider at what was apparently a secret meeting with the foreman of the RR! The two seated themselves, and Haney waited, studying them and then the trail. And now he saw two more horsemen, and these were riding up the trail together. One was a big, slope-shouldered man whom he had seen in Soledad, and he rode a Box N horse. The last man rode a gray mustang with the Three Diamonds of Star Levitt on his hip.

  Here was something of real interest. The four brands, two of them outwardly at war, the others on the verge of it, meeting in secret. Haney cursed his luck that he could not hear what was said, but so far as he could see, Berdue seemed to be laying down the law.

  Then he saw something else.

  At first it was a vague suggestion of disturbance in the grass and brush near the foot of the cliff, and then he saw a slight figure. His heart leaped as he saw Sherry Vernon, crawling nearer!

  Sherry Vernon!

  Whatever the meeting of the four men meant, it was at least plain that they intended no one to overhear what they had to say. If the girl was seen, she would be in great danger. Sliding back from his lookout point, he ran in a crouching run toward the house and got his Winchester.

  By the time he was back, the brief meeting was breaking up. The girl lay still below him, and the men mounted one by one and rode away. The last to go was Sydney Berdue.

  After several minutes had passed, Sherry got to her feet and walked out in the open. She went to the spring and drank and then stood looking around, obviously in profound thought.

  Ross debated the possibility of getting his horse, but dismissed his idea as impossible. It would require a couple of hours at least to ride from here to the spring, although he was wi
thin a few hundred feet of it.

  The girl walked away toward the woods finally, evidently for her horse. After some minutes she rode out of the trees on Flame and started down the trail toward the VV Ranch, distant against the far hills.

  There had been a meeting of the four brands, but not of the leaders. Sherry Vernon had probably overheard what was said. He scowled thoughtfully. The girl had moved with care and skill, and her actions showed she was no mean woodsman when it came to playing the Indian. None of the four below had been a tenderfoot, yet she had approached them and listened without giving herself away. Sherry Vernon, he decided, would bear some watching herself.

  Saddling Rio, Ross rode back through the aspens and down the lonely and dangerous trail to the rim of the badlands. He still had found no way to enter the lava beds, and if he was to take the next step in his program of conquest, he must find the cattle that he was sure still roamed among those remote and lost waterholes in the lava.

  The afternoon was well along before he found himself skirting the rim of the canyon that opened near the lava beds, and when he reached them it was already late. There would be little time for a search, but despite that, he turned north, planning to cut back around the mesa and return to Soledad by way of the springs.

  A slight movement among the trees ahead caused him to halt, and then he saw several elk drifting slowly down a narrow glade toward the lava. His eyes narrowed suddenly. There was no water of which he knew closer than the Thousand Springs pool, and these elk were drifting away from it rather than toward it. As they usually watered at sundown or before daybreak, they must be headed for water elsewhere, and that could be in the lava.

  Dismounting, he ground hitched his horse and watched the elk as they drifted along until they had almost vanished in the trees; then he mounted and followed them down. When the trail he was following turned down and joined theirs, he continued along it. In a few minutes he grunted with satisfaction, for the hoof marks led him right up to the lava and into a narrow cleft between two great folds of the black rocks.