High Desert

by Wayne D. Overholser

  HIGH DESERT

  A WESTERN DUO

  WAYNE D. OVERHOLSER

  Copyright © 1953 by Best Publications, Inc., Street & Smith Publications, Inc. © renewed 1981 by Wayne D. Overholser. © 2018 by the Estate of Wayne D. Overholser

  E-book published in 2018 by Blackstone Publishing

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Trade e-book ISBN 978-1-5384-7442-6

  Library e-book ISBN 978-1-5384-7441-9

  Fiction/Westerns

  CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress

  Blackstone Publishing

  31 Mistletoe Rd.

  Ashland, OR 97520

  www.BlackstonePublishing.com

  I

  Traveling eastward, Murdo Morgan left the pines in midmorning and came into the high Oregon desert. He made a dry noon camp under a wind-turned juniper, drank sparingly from his canteen, and rode on. The sky was without clouds; the sun laid a hot pressure upon him. Sage grew in rounded clumps as far as he could see, the smell of it a desert incense in his nostrils.

  He forked his black easily in the way of a man who rides much, the dust of uncounted miles upon him. His face was high-boned, his nose thin; features that had marked all the Morgans he had ever known. They had marked his father who had left Paradise Valley sixteen years before, a broken and defeated man. They had marked his three brothers who lay buried below the valley’s east rim.

  Today Morgan rode across country he did not remember. Tomorrow he would be in Paradise Valley. He pictured it now with the nostalgic eagerness of a grown man returning to his boyhood home. He had long dreamed of this return, of how he would stamp Broad Clancy under his boot heels, of how he would smash Turkey Track’s hold on the valley.

  They had been childish dreams inspired by a boy’s lust for revenge, a lust that had been blunted by the years. A different purpose had brought him back, although Broad Clancy would not believe it. There was another dream, a greater one than the boy dreams, that Morgan wanted to turn into reality.

  The town of Irish Bend lay ahead, but Morgan could not guess the distance in miles. The country seemed entirely strange. It was late spring, and the desert, never really green, was feeling the surge of its scant life.

  He remembered that it had been fall when he had ridden out of the country with his father, but it was not the difference in seasons that made the desert seem unfamiliar. The years had dimmed his memory of these empty miles. At twenty-seven he retained few of the thoughts and images that had been bright in the mind of an eleven-year-old boy. Even the dream had changed, and grown with time. Now it was a lodestar calling him back to risk his life and every cent of money he had.

  Morgan followed an east-west valley, rimrock forming an unbroken line to his left. A jack rabbit broke into the open and kicked high into the air. A band of antelope raced away from Morgan to fade into the sage. In late afternoon, he came to a herd of cattle carrying the Turkey Track brand, evidence that Broad Clancy’s domain spread far beyond Paradise Valley.

  Dusk caught him with Irish Bend still not in sight. He made camp beside a tar-paper shack, built a small fire, and cooked supper. When he was done with the fire, he kicked it out, for his was a dangerous business, and he had learned long ago that a man silhouetted against a night blaze made a good target.

  Darkness folded about him, the last golden glow of sunset dying along the snowy crest of the Cascades. Morgan lay on his back, head on his saddle, eyes on the stars set in a tall sky. There was this moment when he could thrust worry away and let the dreams build, but another night would bring its sultry threat of violence. He wasn’t fooling himself. He knew Broad Clancy too well.

  But this night was to be enjoyed — the desert smells, the desert wildness, the great emptiness of this land with its rimrock and buttes, its juniper and sage. It shouldn’t be an empty land. The valley bottom could be irrigated, the lower slopes of the surrounding buttes dry-farmed. Given normal luck and a boost from Providence, a thousand families could make a living on land that now supported only Broad Clancy’s Turkey Track and a handful of settlers. That was Murdo Morgan’s dream — to place a thousand families on land that would be theirs.

  He gave himself to speculation about the tar-paper shack. Four walls with a broken window and no door, a roof partly stripped by the wind, a splintered floor. A few newspapers in the corner. Portland Oregonians, Morgan noted, not yet yellowed by age. And outside, almost covered by wind-blown sand, was a weather-grayed cradle. Homemade and crude, but hinting at a poignant story.

  Knowing Broad Clancy, Morgan could guess the story. Clancy would tolerate only a limited number of nesters on his range and only at places he designated. His men had come here, probably late at night, routed the nesters from their beds, and started them on their way. And a baby had learned to sleep without its cradle.

  The run of a horse brought Morgan upright. He listened a moment, placing the horse to the east and gauging its speed. It was coming directly toward him. Pulling saddle and blanket away from the shack, he hunkered there to listen.

  Another horse was coming from the south. Morgan waited, tense, not hearing the first horse for a time. Then they were both in front of the shack, and a man called: “Peg!”

  Morgan heard the girl’s laugh, gay and soft.

  “You’d ride through the whole Clancy outfit to get here, wouldn’t you, Buck?” she said.

  “It was a fool risk,” the man said irritably.

  The girl laughed again, tauntingly this time. “Afraid, Buck?”

  “You know I ain’t. I just ain’t goin’ to stand for you playin’ around with Rip and eggin’ me on at the same time. You’re making up your mind tonight.”

  “What makes you think I see Rip?”

  “There’s talk enough. Is it me or Rip?”

  “You men are all fools.” There was the creak of saddle leather as she stepped down. “You’re wasting time, Buck.”

  “I want to know.”

  “Of course, it’s you.”

  “Then I’m tellin’ you, Peg. If I ever catch....”

  “Buck, are you going to kiss me?”

  He swung out of the saddle then. Morgan saw them come together, the two shapes mold into one, heard whispers of talk that reached him as blurred sounds. From what he had heard about the valley, Morgan guessed this would be Buck Carrick, a nester’s son.

  Buck flamed a match and held it to his cigarette, the glow of it making a brief brightness. He had a handsome square face, his eyes dark and widely spaced, his chin a fighter’s chin. About twenty-five, Morgan guessed. Old enough to be in love and foolish enough to meet this girl at risk of his life.

  Peg, for some reason Morgan hadn’t heard, was suddenly angry. “I won’t ride off with you, Buck,” she was saying, “and I didn’t have you come here for Rip to shoot! If that’s the way you trust me, get on your horse and keep riding.”

  “I told you this was the night you were makin’ up your mind,” Buck said. “You’ve kept me danglin’ for two years. I can’t stand it no longer.”

  “Let me go!” the girl screamed.

  “We’ll get married in Prineville and...well, take the stage to The Dalles.”

  “Your dad will....”

  “We’ll be out of the country before he knows anything about it.”

  “You’re crazy, Buck!”

  “That’s right. Crazy with lovin’ you. Crazy with wantin’ you. Crazy with worryin’ what Rip Clancy is doin’ to you. I lov
e you, Peg. Ain’t that enough?”

  “No. Not nearly enough. I’ll never marry you.”

  “You said I was the one. That’s all I need to know.”

  Morgan had crawled through the sage to the shack. He came to his feet, gun fisted.

  “Let her go, Buck. It’s too dark to see what you’re up to, so don’t make any fast moves.”

  The girl jerked out of Buck’s hands and ran to her horse. Buck stood still, a square black shape in the starlight. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Makes no never mind to you. Mount up and get.”

  “I ain’t leavin’ her with you,” Buck said doggedly. “How do I know what you’re figgerin’ on?”

  “I ain’t keeping the girl,” Morgan said. “But if she rides, you’ll sit pat for a spell.”

  “Maybe I’m not in a hurry, mister,” the girl said.

  “Then you ain’t smart.”

  “You’re wrong on that.”

  “Go on, then.”

  “I hope I’ll see you again.”

  “Don’t ever see her,” Buck groaned. “She’ll drag you through perdition. She’s poison.”

  Peg was in the saddle now, her laugh gay and without the shadow of fear.

  “Why, Buck, I thought you liked my poison.”

  Turning her mount, she rode eastward. Morgan held Buck there until the sound of her horse was lost in the desert stillness.

  “All right, son,” he said then. “Remember what I said about fast moves.”

  “I ain’t forgettin’,” Buck said bitterly, “and I ain’t forgettin’ what you done tonight.”

  “I hope you won’t, because you’ll thank me someday. Go on now. Vamoose.”

  But Buck stood motionless as if listening. Morgan heard it then. More horses. Coming toward them.

  “I didn’t see anybody all day,” Morgan said. “Now the desert’s alive.”

  “It’s Peg’s work,” Buck said with deep sourness. “She does that to a man. She’s a fever in your blood if you look at her twice. I’m warnin’ you, mister. Stay away from her.”

  The sound of horses came through the night.

  “Got a guess on who’s coming?”

  “Rip Clancy and some Turkey Track hands. Chances are Peg met ’em and headed ’em this way.”

  “Then you’d better be making dust. I’ll hold ’em off.”

  Buck stepped up. “You don’t owe me nothin’, friend. This roan I’m ridin’ can outrun any nag they’ve got.”

  “I’ve got my own reasons for not wanting a ruckus to bust out. Get moving. Run your horse for a few minutes. Then pull up and take it easy.”

  “I know a few things,” Buck said resentfully. Cracking steel to his horse, he disappeared.

  Morgan remained at the shack, his back to the wall. There was no moon, and the starlight made a thin glow on the desert.

  His lot had been a lonely one. No mother that he could remember. His father dead when he was twelve, nerves shattered and health broken by Broad Clancy’s lead, the dream a prodding ambition until the moment of his death. That dream had been Murdo Morgan’s inheritance.

  The lonely years then. A chore boy on one ranch after another. A cowhand in Montana. A lawman in tough Arizona border towns. Finally, the Colorado mining camps. Then his luck had turned. He had grub-staked a prospector and the man had struck it. That had given Morgan his stake, enough to buy the wagon road grant that made up half of Paradise Valley.

  Morgan smiled now as he thought of the Cascade and Paradise Land Company. He was that land company, but it was just as well Broad Clancy didn’t know it for a time. Clancy hated the company enough. He would hate it twice as much if he knew the company and Murdo Morgan were one and the same.

  Clancy had used this range for years, government and company land alike, ignoring the fact that the odd sections of a strip six miles wide on both sides of the old wagon road belonged to the company. The company had made no effort to collect rent, and Clancy had neither offered to pay nor lease the land.

  With high disdain for the right of private property, he had considered all the valley open range and had acted accordingly.

  II

  Because Morgan’s life had been a lonely and womanless one, his thoughts turned to the girl, Peg. He wondered what she looked like. He heard again the light tone of her laughter. It had been a fine sound to hear. It would stay with him like a sweet haunting tune he had heard whistled. Then a sour note turned his thoughts bitter. There had been no trouble in the valley since Morgan and his father had left. Now this Peg had Buck Carrick and Rip Clancy in love with her. It would take a woman, he thought, to stir up a feud at a moment when he, Morgan, was bringing trouble enough of his own.

  He caught the blur of running horses. Four of them pointed directly toward the shack. Morgan wondered what kind of girl this Peg was who would allow her flurry of anger to turn her from Buck to the Clancys.

  They were there then, reining up in a whirling cloud of dust that drifted toward the shack.

  “Come out of there, Carrick!” a man in front called.

  “He’s gone,” Morgan said. “If you boys’ll keep riding, I’ll go back to sleep.”

  “Who the devil are you?”

  “Makes you no never mind, does it, friend?”

  “You’re on Turkey Track range. Get off.”

  “Reckon I’m hurting the bunchgrass? Or are you looking out for the sagebrush?”

  “Actin’ smart won’t buy you nothin’. I said to drift. This is Rip Clancy talkin’.”

  “A Clancy don’t cut no bigger swath than the next man.” Anger honed a fine edge to Morgan’s voice. “I aim to finish my sleep.”

  “You’ll sure finish it if....”

  “We’re getting sidetracked,” a gravelly voiced rider beside Rip said. “This is just a drifter. We’re after Carrick.”

  The man loomed a head taller than Rip, and was wider of shoulder. Morgan could tell nothing about him beyond that, but his was a voice a man would never forget.

  “Why don’t you light out after Carrick?” Morgan asked. “He allowed you didn’t have an animal that could run with his roan.”

  Rip cursed shrilly. “He’s just a braggin’ fool! Where’d he go?”

  “South.”

  He told them the truth and knew they wouldn’t believe it. He smiled, thinking they would look for Buck in any direction but south.

  “I’ve got a hunch he’s in the shack,” Rip said uncertainly. “I’m goin’ to take a look.”

  “I wouldn’t, sonny,” Morgan breathed. “It’s too dark to watch you right close, so I’m thinking you’d better stay where you are.”

  “You ain’t tough enough to stop us!” blustered Rip.

  “Maybe not,” Morgan drawled, “but I’ve got an iron in my hand and five slugs that says I’ll make a nice mess out of your bunch while I’m trying.”

  There was silence then except for the heavy breathing of the Turkey Track men. The one behind Rip sounded as if he had asthma.

  This was an old and familiar business for Murdo Morgan, but he didn’t like it. Somewhere along his back trail he had lost his appetite for powder smoke. He had come here to build, not to destroy. But this was a matter of living or dying.

  “What you doin’ on this range?” Rip Clancy demanded.

  “My business, sonny.”

  “You’re a stranger,” Rip said arrogantly. “I’ll tell you somethin’ you need to know. Around here folks do what Broad Clancy says. If they don’t, they have trouble. Buck Carrick knew he was off the reservation when he came here. I think he’s inside now and you’re coverin’ up for him. If we find him, we’ll make wolf meat out of him.”

  “What’s between you and Buck Carrick is nothing to me. Right now, my business is to keep you on your horse.”

  “If Buck�
�s inside,” the big man said, “it makes two guns, and he ain’t worth gettin’ killed over. We’ll wait till the sign’s right to get him, Rip.”

  But Rip Clancy was too young and too much in love to consider the risk.

  “There’s four of us,” he said darkly. “This hair-pin can’t be as tough as he acts.”

  A smart man wouldn’t walk into it. Not with the darkness as thick as it was and with Morgan standing with his back to the shack wall. What light there was worked to his advantage.

  The gravelly voiced man knew it. Another time Rip would have known it. But Buck Carrick had met Peg here.

  The bitterness that thought roused in Rip was a potion deadening his instinct of self-preservation.

  “Too bad you’re bent on committing suicide tonight,” Morgan murmured. “You ought to give yourself time to play your string out with Peg.”

  It was a long shot that might work either way. Morgan heard Rip’s indrawn breath, heard him ask — “What do you know about Peg?” — in a high nerve-tightened voice. Then a faint challenging cry came from the south, and a gun sounded, muffled by distance.

  “Reckon that’d be Buck,” the gravelly voiced man said. “Let’s get him!”

  Wheeling their horses, they pounded south toward the gun blast. Morgan felt admiration for Buck Carrick. He had waited out there in the sage to pull the Turkey Track riders off because it was his fight and none of Murdo Morgan’s. With a fast horse under him and a black night to hide in, he could play fox and hounds with a better than even chance to get clear.

  Murdo built a cigarette and smoked it before he went back to his blanket. Horse sounds faded and desert emptiness was all around him again.

  He vaguely remembered the Clancy kids. There was Short John, older than Morgan, about fourteen when Morgan had left the valley and a runt for his age. Morgan remembered a girl named Jewell. She would be in her early twenties now. This Rip was the youngest. He had been little more than a baby when Morgan and his father had ridden out of the country.

  Then the memory of Peg’s rich laugh crowded the Clancys out of Morgan’s mind. He wouldn’t like her. He wouldn’t like any girl who played two men against each other to satisfy her own sense of importance, but he would never forget her....