She looked at him thoughtfully, then lifted the coffee from the fire.
“He will be if he likes the desert and mountains,” was her only comment.
When they had finished eating he threw more wood on the fire and stretched out on the sand where he could look across the flames into Vaho’s eyes. He felt vastly comfortable and relaxed, with myriad stars littered across the sky. The black loom of the cliffs, the ranch, the rodeo, and even Jenny seemed far behind.
They talked for a long time, while in the distance a coyote yapped at the stars. The grass rustled softly with the movements of the horses as they cropped quietly of the rich green grass.
CHAPTER IV
SILVERSIDE
Daybreak found Rowdy and Vaho moving again, and dipping down into the wide white bowl of another arm of the desert. Sweat broke out on Rowdy’s forehead as the heat waves banked higher around them. There was no air, no movement save their own, and always and forever the heat.
Suddenly, Vaho Rainey turned her bay at right angles and dipped steeply down a narrow path to the bottom of a great sink. It was at least a thousand yards across, and all of two hundred feet from bottom to rim. Against the far wall, walled in by a huddle of stones, was a pool of clear cold water, and the dozen or so wickiups of Cochino, the Apache chief.
Rowdy Horn’s pulse leaped as he saw the horses scattered nearby, feeding quietly, for among them was the tall black horse with the single great splash of white upon his left side—Silverside, the greatest roping horse he had ever seen!
His eyes turned again to the village. Nobody was in sight, neither squaws nor children, but he was conscious of watching eyes. For years the old renegade Apache had refused to live on a reservation, instead retreating steadily into the farthest vastnesses of the desert and mountains. At times he had fought savagely, but in the last years he had merely held to his loneliness, fiercely resenting any attempt to come near him or lure him out. It was reported that his braves were insane, that he was mad, that they had eaten of the fruit of a desert plant that rendered them all as deadly as marijuana addicts.
Vaho drew rein. “Be very careful, Rowdy,” she said, low-voiced. “Make no quick moves, and let me do the talking.”
From behind the wickiups and out of the rocks the Indians began to appear. Attired only in the skimpiest of breechclouts, their dusky bodies were dark as some of the burned red rocks of the desert, and looked as rough as old lava. Their black eyes looked hard as flint, as one by one they came down from the rocks and slowly gathered in a circle about the two riders.
Rowdy could feel his heart pounding, and was conscious of the weight of the six-shooter against his leg. It would be nip and tuck if anything started here. He might get a few of them, but they would get him in the end. Suddenly he cursed himself for a fool for having come here or letting Vaho come.
An old man emerged from the group and stared at them with hard, unblinking eyes. Vaho suddenly started to speak. Knowing a few words of Apache, Rowdy could follow her conversation. She was explaining that she was the adopted daughter of Cleetus, that he sent his best wishes to Cochino, the greatest of all Apache war chiefs.
The old man stared at her, then at Rowdy. His reply Horn could not interpret, but Vaho said to Rowdy suddenly, “He says for us to get down. He will talk.”
That was no proof of their safety, yet it was something. Rowdy swung down and allowed an Indian to take their horses, then he followed Cochino to the fire, and all seated themselves. After a few minutes the girl took some of the presents they had brought from the bag she had prepared with Rowdy’s help. A fine steel hunting knife, a package of tobacco, a bolt of red calico, other presents.
Cochino looked at them, but his expression was bleak. He lifted his eyes to Vaho, and there was a question in them. Slowly, she began to explain. This friend—she gestured to Rowdy—was the friend of Cleetus also. She told how he had taken the old Indian in, treated his broken wrist, fed him and cared for him until he was able to move. She explained how Rowdy was a great warrior, but that in the games of his people he could not compete because his horse was injured, that he was an unhappy man. Then she had told him that her friend Cochino, the friend also of Cleetus, had a magnificent horse that he might lend or sell—the great Silverside.
For an hour the talk went on. Following it with difficulty, Rowdy Horn could be sure of nothing. Cochino should have been a poker player, he reflected. His expression was unreadable. Little by little, however, he seemed to be showing approval of Rowdy, and of Vaho. Suddenly he asked a question, looking from Rowdy to the girl, and she flushed.
Rowdy glanced at her quickly. “What did he want to know?” he said.
SHE WOULD NOT MEET his eyes, but continued to talk. He listened, straining his ears to get every syllable, doing his best to interpret what she was saying. The old Apache suddenly chuckled. It was a grim, hard sound, but there was a glint of ironic humor in his eyes as he looked from the girl to Rowdy. Finally, he nodded.
“Yes,” he said, speaking plainly in English.
Her face flushed with happiness, Vaho turned to Rowdy, putting her hand impulsively on his arm.
“He says you can have the horse! He gives him to you, and he wishes you luck.”
The old Indian got to his feet, and they did also.
“Tell him,” Rowdy said impulsively, “that when he wishes, if there is anything a friend can do for him or his people, to come to me, or to send a messenger. There is only peace and brotherhood between the people of Cochino and Rowdy Horn.”
She explained briefly, and the old Indian nodded gravely.
“Invite him to the rodeo if he wishes to come,” Rowdy added.
Vaho spoke swiftly, and the old Indian stared at them, his eyes bleak. Then he shook his head.
“He says,” Vaho explained, “he is too old to give up now. As he has lived, so will he die.”
A long time after that, riding away through the great broken hills, Rowdy glanced back again and again at the splendid horse he was leading. And that night when they camped again beside the pool, he talked with the tall horse, curried him carefully. The horse nuzzled him, eager for affection.
Vaho walked out to them from the fire, and he looked around at her. “This horse is almost human,” he said. “Somehow he gives a man the feeling of standing near something superb, something beyond just horse-flesh.”
She nodded. “I know. He likes you, too, Rowdy. Already that is plain.” She hesitated for a moment. “But Rowdy, it has been a long time since he has worked with cattle. Do you think he will be as good?”
“I’ve no idea,” he admitted, “but he’s my only chance, and somehow I think we’ll make it. Anyway, it will be a treat to ride this horse.”
Yet he was scarcely thinking of that. He was thinking of the girl by his side—tall, clean-limbed, and lovely—and he was remembering the long ride through the desert beside her, the calm way she had talked to Cochino, the strange feeling of ease and happiness he had when riding with her, when knowing she was close to him. She was in his thoughts even as he slept—and dreamed….
“ROWDY,” VAHO SAID suddenly the following morning, “there’s another trail, a way through the Rim to the back of your place. Old Cleetus showed it to me when I was just a little girl. Let’s go that way. I think it’s shorter.”
Turning their horses they cut off through the pines toward the blue haze that hung in the distance, and abruptly they drew up on the very edge of an amazing canyon whose sides dropped sheer away to the sandy bottom where a small stream slid over a bottom now of rocks, now of sand. Skirting the cliff, they came to a steep path and wound their way down. When they and their horses had rested and had drunk long of the clear, cold water, they mounted again and turned downstream.
It was cool in the shadow of the cliffs. When they had followed the canyon for several hours, Rowdy called softly to Vaho, who had ridden on ahead.
“Look here.” He drew up, pointing.
In the sand of the canyo
n bottom were the tracks of several shod horses.
“No Indian ponies,” he said grimly, “and no white man that I know of knows this country. Except one.”
“You think it’s Rollick?” she asked.
“Who else? Times have changed since the old days, but there’s still a market for rustled beef, and Jack Rollick is supposed to be back in here somewhere.”
“The tracks go the same way we’re going,” she said, “but there’s no way out of here now except downstream.”
“Let’s go,” he said grimly.
He reached back and slipped the thong from the butt of his six-gun. His rifle he always carried in a scabbard that pointed forward and down just ahead of his right knee so that the stock of the rifle was within easy grasp of his right hand. He was glad now that it was so handy.
Riding cautiously downstream they had gone no more than two miles when suddenly the canyon widened out and the rock walls fell back. They drew up sharply in the screen of aspen and willow beside the trail. Before them was a wide green meadow through which coursed the stream. The meadow was all of fifty acres in extent. A branch canyon seemed to lead off an immeasurable distance to the right. Within view were at least one hundred head of cattle, fattening on the grass.
Beyond, and close to the sheer wall at the far end of the little meadow, was a stone cabin, and a corral. There were several horses in the corral. No saddled horses were in sight.
Skirting the cliff wall, they circled to the right, trusting to the sparse trees and the brush, as well as to the wide shadow of the encircling cliffs, to hide them. As they neared the cabin, Rowdy saw that the stream had been dammed and there was a large pool, all of an acre in extent.
Vaho touched his arm, indicating the pool. “That may be your trouble,” she said, low-voiced. “This stream is probably the source of your water supply.”
He had been thinking the same thing, and he nodded. When they had a better view, he could see that no more than a trickle seemed to be escaping from the pool, and the waters of the stream had been diverted to irrigate another small meadow.
More cattle were in view in the branch canyon. Rowdy Horn estimated that three hundred head were held here. From the brands he saw, nearly every ranch in the South Rim country was represented except the Bar O. That was, in itself, evidence of a kind. He stored the fact grimly away in his mind.
“Nobody around,” he said thoughtfully. “I’m going to have a look in that cabin.”
“I’ll wait here,” Vaho said. “Be careful.”
He left her with Silverside and rode forward slowly. When near the cabin he dismounted and walked nearer on cat feet. A glance through the window showed the cabin to be empty. Stepping inside, he took a hasty look around. Six or seven men were bunking here, and they had supplies and ammunition enough to last a long time. Also, the house gave every evidence of long occupancy.
Under one of the bunks he saw a square black box and drew it out. It was padlocked, but picking up a hatchet, he smashed the lock with a few well-directed blows. Inside the box were a couple of engraved six-shooters, some odds and ends of letters addressed to Jack Rollick, and a small black tally book. He had picked it up and opened it, when he heard a scream.
With a lunge he was on his feet, racing to the door. He sprang outside, his eyes swinging to the woods where he had left Vaho. The bushes were thrashing, and he heard another low cry. Instantly he vaulted into saddle and the black horse lunged into a dead run for the woods. Rowdy hit the ground running, and dived through the bushes.
Vaho, her blouse torn, was fighting desperately with a tall, powerful man in a sweat-stained red shirt. When Rowdy plunged through the brush, the man’s head turned. With an oath he hurled the girl from him and grabbed for his gun.
His draw was like a flash of light, and in an instant of desperation as the big man’s hand darted, Rowdy Horn knew he could never match that draw, yet he palmed his own gun. The rustler’s six-shooter roared, then Rowdy fired.
The big man lifted on his tiptoes, raised his eyebrows, and opened his mouth slowly, then plunged over on his face.
CHAPTER V
FRAMED INTO JAIL
Carefully, gun ready, Rowdy walked forward. He had never killed a man before, and he was frightened. The rustler’s shot had been hasty and had missed. Evidently, the big fellow had stumbled when he tried to move, for Rowdy’s bullet had gone into his back, just behind his left arm, and had come out under the heart.
“Oh, Rowdy!” Vaho cried, her eyes wide. “You killed him!”
“I reckon I did!” he said. “And I reckon we’d better make tracks out of here before they get back! There’s at least five or six more of them around somewhere.”
Swiftly they rode away, and in his hip pocket was the black tally book, forgotten.
They were skirting the Slash Bar range when Vaho spoke up suddenly. “Rowdy, hadn’t you better ride on into Aragon and report this to the sheriff? Wouldn’t it be best?”
“That’s a good idea,” he said worriedly. “What about you?”
“I’ll wait at the Point of Rocks with Silverside. You can cut across to town; then come back here and we’ll go on to your place.”
Despite the fact that the killing had been in self-defense, and to protect Vaho, Rowdy was worried. It was no small thing to kill a man, even a thief and rustler. He rode swiftly, hurrying by every shortcut he knew, for Aragon. Yet when he arrived, the sheriff ’s office was deserted. He walked down the street, but could find him nowhere.
Eager to be back with Vaho, and worried about her—for he realized that the dead rustler’s friends might trail them—Rowdy finally abandoned his quest for the sheriff and returned to the Point of Rocks. Together they rode on to the Slash Bar.
Riding into the yard, he called out, but there was no reply. Neil Rice was evidently away. Rowdy swung down, and wearily the girl dismounted. He stripped the saddles and bridles from the sweat-stained horses and turned all three of them into the corral. He and Vaho walked toward the house, but Vaho halted suddenly.
“Rowdy,” she said, “I’m as tired as can be, but I should be going back to the Indians. Cleetus was to come today, and he’ll be worried about me.”
“All right.” He turned back and saddled a paint horse for her to ride. As she sat in the saddle, he took her hand. “Vaho,” he said, “you’ve been swell. I didn’t know they made them like you.”
“It’s all right. I liked doing it.”
“Look,” he said. “After the rodeo there’s a big dance. Will you go with me?”
Her eyes brightened. “Oh, Rowdy! I’d love to! A dance! Why, I haven’t danced since I left Boston! Of course I’ll go!”
When she was out of sight in the gathering dusk, he turned back again toward the cabin. Opening the door, he walked in. The place was hot and stuffy, so he left the door open. Striking a match, he lit the coal-oil lamp, then turned around to replace it in the bracket. With the lamp in his hand, he stopped, riveted to the spot.
There on the floor of his cabin lay the body of a dead man. The redshirted man he had killed at the hideout!
But how on earth had he come here? Rowdy did not even hear the approaching horses until a voice spoke abruptly behind him: “Here! What’s this?”
Turning, he found Sheriff Ben Wells staring from him to the body.
“What’s happened here?” demanded the lawman. “Who is this hombre?”
Behind Wells were Bart Luby and Mike McNulty. “That’s cold-blooded killing, Ben!” Luby said triumphantly. “This man was shot in the back.”
“He was not!” Horn declared hotly. “He was left side toward me, and he fired, then started to move. My bullet went in where you see it, back of his arm.”
“It’s still in his back!” Luby said. “And,” he added grimly, “we have only your story for it. You say he fired a shot. Why, his gun’s still in its holster!”
“He wasn’t killed here!” Horn said angrily. “This hombre grabbed Vaho Rainey when we were ri
ding back of the Rim. I rushed up to help and he drew and fired. He missed and I shot and killed him!”
Sheriff Wells knelt beside the body. Drawing the gun, he checked it, then looked up, his face grave.
“This gun is fully loaded,” he said, “and hasn’t been fired!”
“What?” Rowdy was dumbfounded. “Why, that couldn’t be. He—” He shrugged. “Well, I reckon the man or men who brought him here changed guns with him.”
Wells gnawed at his gray mustache. Secretly, he had always liked Rowdy Horn as much as he disliked Bart Luby, but this story was out of all reason.
“You mean to say,” he demanded, “that you killed this man back of the Rim? And that somebody packed his carcass down here and dumped him on you?”
“That’s exactly what happened!” Rowdy Horn said flatly. “It’s the only way it could have happened.”
Luby laughed. “Give him credit for being original, Ben. But he certainly hasn’t much respect for your intelligence, to try a story like that.”
“You’ll have to come into town, son,” Wells said, his voice hardening. “This will have to be explained.”
“But you can’t put me in jail!” Rowdy pleaded. “Think, man! The rodeo’s tomorrow.”
“You should have thought of that,” Luby suggested, “before you killed this man. Anyway, that’s no excuse. Your ropin’ horse is laid up, so you can’t compete!”
On the verge of bursting out with an explanation about Silverside, he caught himself just in time. If he had to go to jail, and there was nobody to watch the horse, it might easily be stolen.
“I knew this hombre,” McNulty said suddenly. “He was Jake Leener, one of the Rollick outfit.”
“No matter,” Wells said positively. “He was shot in the back. We had nothing against him, even if he did ride with Rollick. The law can’t call a man a crook until he’s known to be one. This here hombre hadn’t no record I know of, and he sure ain’t wanted now.”
“But listen!” Rowdy protested. “I’ve a witness! Vaho Rainey saw all this! She knows what happened!”
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Five Page 20