by Ray Hogan
“Did I do something wrong? She’s ridden to town before with the hired hands. I couldn’t see why—”
“Never mind,” he said, the realities and necessities of the moment grasping him harshly. “Something I’ve got to do. Don’t wait supper for me.”
In the next instant he had snatched up his hat, was running through the doorway into the yard, yelling for Manuel to get his horse saddled.
Twelve
Starbuck, no more than a half mile from the Underwood ranch, caught the sound of hoof beats in his wake. Instantly he swung the chestnut off into a dense tamarisk windbreak. Hand resting lightly on the butt of his pistol, he waited.
Soon, Holly, dressed in her corduroy riding outfit but this time wearing a man’s wide-brimmed hat instead of the usual brightly colored scarf, broke into view. Her face was intent as she looked down the road.
Shawn moved out of the thicket, the tautness slipping from his long frame. “Hunting for me?”
Reining in sharply, she whirled, startled. A smile of relief parted her lips.
“I was afraid I’d missed you.”
Shawn frowned. “Missed me?”
“I thought maybe you were farther ahead than I expected, and I’d have trouble catching up. I’m riding in to Vegas, too.”
Starbuck’s brow puckered with disapproval. He wanted no company on this journey—particularly hers.
“Your father know about this?”
“He does by now. I told Mother. There’s nothing wrong with it. I often ride to town with the men.” She studied him soberly as they continued down the road. “Why? Don’t you want me along?”
“Not that,” he replied, shifting on the saddle. “Happens I’m running an errand for your father. Important one, I guess. Aimed to travel fast and hard.”
“I know. It’s a letter to Ira Cameron at the bank. I overheard father talking to you. That’s where I stay—with the Camerons.”
Shawn gazed ahead, settled himself resignedly on the chestnut. He didn’t like the idea but he guessed it was all right—and there seemed little he could do about it, anyway. Almost curtly he bobbed his head in agreement.
“Let’s go,” he said and spurred the gelding to a fast lope.
She moved up beside him quickly, riding her sorrel with a flawless, natural grace. Abreast, the two horses, one only a slightly darker red than the other in the hot, afternoon sun, stretched out in a matching pace.
Sometime later they were out of the trees and brush, were once again on open, grassy range. For a full hour they traveled across an almost level plain, and then the road began to rise toward the mountains in the distance. The grass thinned, became irregularly spaced clumps; the land began to break up with scatterings of rock here and there while rabbit brush, sage and groundsel became more plentiful.
Shawn glanced at Holly’s sorrel and noted the lather flecking his coat. At once he began to slow, realizing he’d not given her mount thought, was gauging endurance and fitness by the standards of the powerful chestnut. Pulling into a trot, he brushed sweat from his forehead, shifted his attention to Holly. Her tanned, serene face was glistening from the heat but she had voiced no complaint, and made none now.
“Shade down there,” he said, indicating a stand of small trees a quarter mile distant. “Be a good place to pull up, rest a bit.”
The girl nodded, then pointed to a darker patch of green higher up on the slope above the road. “That’s where we usually stop. There’s a spring. We can get a cool drink, water the horses.”
Shawn was not especially interested in any lengthy stop, and the chestnut was not in need of watering, but he had Holly to think of. Immediately he swung onto a narrow path that veered off the road, angled upward.
It was pleasant beneath the cottonwoods and chokecherrys. The grass was thick, a rich emerald, and the murmur of water bubbling from under a granite ledge, rushing over a bed of sand and pebbles for a dozen strides to disappear again into the dark earth, was soothing. Wild verbena lay like a purple mat on the nearby slopes and yellow crownbeard, standing in dense profusion, crowded the banks of the creek.
Under different circumstances Starbuck would have appreciated the mountain oasis, would have considered it a fine place to loaf away a summer’s day, but with Sam Underwood’s letter tucked inside his shirt, its sharp corners digging into his skin reminding him of its presence, dalliance must necessarily be limited.
“Best we move on,” he said, getting to his feet. “Sooner I get this—”
Words died on his lips as the distant, hollow thud of running horses somewhere below came to him. Moving forward, he looked down slope. The spring lay in a fairly deep hollow and a long, rock-studded ridge shut off his view completely. He turned back to where Holly waited with the horses.
“Riders. Several, sounded like.”
The girl swung to her saddle, not waiting for him to assist. “Lots of people use the road,” she said. “Connects with the one that runs into Texas. Anyone going from there to Vegas or Santa Fe—any of the towns in the Rio Grande Valley, will use it.”
“Don’t think they were on the road. Seemed farther, below that, moving fast.”
She smiled down at him, her eyes mischievous. “Taking a short cut. Maybe they’re anxious to get to town and see the saloon girls, too, like you.”
“Not the reason I’m in a hurry,” Starbuck said, stepping up onto the gelding.
Holly was probably right, he thought, and he should forget it, not become disturbed. But he found himself wondering about the riders as they worked their way back down the slope to the road. It was that damned letter, he guessed. If Underwood hadn’t gone so strong at impressing him of its importance and the absolute need for getting it delivered safely to Ira Cameron at the bank, he likely would not have given the passersby any consideration.
They reached the well-marked roadway, resumed the journey. Once again Starbuck set the pace at a good lope, but now his attention was on the country ahead. He should be able to glimpse the riders somewhere in the distance since the land rose and fell in a series of slopes and crests created by the higher ridges to the north.
He hoped Holly was right in her assumption—that what he had heard was only cowpunchers on their way to town for a spree, but the ingrained caution of the man would not permit him to accept such an explanation without some degree of reservation. Thus he continued to search the winding dust ribbon before him; he had to be sure.
He saw the three men a short time later. They were climbing a long grade somewhat below and parallel to the road. They were crowding their horses hard. The distance was too great to make recognition possible, but suspicion rose instantly in Starbuck’s mind, and when the riders dropped over onto the far side of the ridge, he swerved in close to Holly.
“There another way to Las Vegas besides this one? A trail, maybe?”
The girl shook her head. “Not that I ever heard of. They say the country in between is very rough—all canyons and buttes. Why?”
“Would as soon get off this road,” he replied, and let it drop there, not wishing to alarm her unduly.
She glanced at him, a petulant frown on her face. “I thought it would be fun riding with you, Shawn. You won’t even talk, much less joke and cut up like the other hands.”
“Wasn’t my idea, your coming along.”
Her face colored and her shoulders came back. “If that’s how you feel I can go on alone,” she said stiffly.
“Not saying that I feel that way. Just that this letter of your pa’s is important—probably a lot more than you think.”
She looked at him closely. “It’s those riders you’re worried about, isn’t it?”
“Not especially worried—just being careful.”
Holly shrugged. “I still think they’re just cowboys going to town for a good time.”
“And I’m hoping you’re right,” he said, but deep within him felt that she wasn’t.
Not long after that they gained the summit of the long slope
on which he’d caught first sight of the men. An equally lengthy distance below, the road entered a somewhat narrow passage hemmed in on both sides with rock and brush, and then again began to climb another slanting hillside.
Starbuck gave that some thought. The riders should be in view as they made their ascent. There was no one visible anywhere. Such could only mean they had stopped in the maze of tangled growth and boulders at the foot of the grade. Once more he swung in close to the sorrel.
“There water down there in the bottom?”
Holly shook her head. “That spring where we were, it’s the only place between the ranch and Vegas.”
Small warning flags began to wave inside Shawn Starbuck’s brain. It sounded like an ambush. Underwood’s warning had not been for nothing. Someone wanted the envelope he was carrying—bad.
He studied the country before him. The road angled to the left, dropped off to a fairly steep slant as it snaked its way downward to the ragged arroyo at the junction of the two slopes. Alert, he continued on its course, following the rutted tracks to a point where they whipped back in a sharp bend and he knew that Holly and he would not be visible to anyone watching from below, and there cut abruptly away, taking to the rough, open land on their right.
“Where are you going?” Holly demanded, puzzled.
“Higher up. We’ll keep in the hills,” he explained. “Got a hunch those men are waiting for us at the foot of the slope. Not taking any chances. We’ll circle around them.”
Surprisingly, she did not protest, but simply swung off the road and followed him up a steep slide covered with loose shale, to a higher level. There they broke out onto a ridge, soon dropped off into a short, shallow valley that ran east and west, as did the road.
Coming to the far side, Starbuck rode to its lower rim, looked down. The arroyo was still a considerable distance in front of them. To bypass, as he planned, he would have to keep to the higher land for another mile at least.
With painstaking care he probed the slopes and little gullies before him. There was no deep swale now in which they could ride unseen, only a series of dangerous slides backed by towering bluffs. The horses would have hard going.
Moving out in front of Holly, he said, “Keep up close. If the sorrel starts spooking, we’ll walk.”
The girl’s presence was a complication. Alone, the chances were he’d not take such trouble to avoid what possibly was no ambush at all but merely three men resting on their way to Las Vegas. But he couldn’t afford to gamble on that; if it was a trap designed to stop him and take Sam Underwood’s letter, and he rode into it, there’d be gunplay, and he couldn’t risk Holly getting hurt.
Better to take all precautions, better to be sure. He’d have a look, though, when they reached a point where he could see down into the arroyo clearly.
Starbuck knew it was an ambush well before that moment came. As he rode near the edge of a treacherously loose-surfaced bench, his eye caught the sudden bright flash of sunlight on metal in the brush. He pulled up short.
“What is it?” Holly asked instantly.
Shawn pointed at the undergrowth below. There was no reason now to hold anything back from her.
“Keep looking,” he said.
It came again—the metallic glint just within the fringe of the brake.
“The riders we heard—they’re holed up in there, waiting for us—for me. That was sunlight shining on a gun barrel.”
She showed no sign of fear, but asked, “Who are they? You have any idea?”
Starbuck had a vague hunch, but no more than that. Therefore, he said, “Three men—about all I can say.”
“What can we do?”
His attention swung back to the land facing them. “Can’t keep going straight across, that’s for sure. Buttes up there block the way. Have to angle down slope, get back on the road.”
“They’ll hear us—see us, too.”
Shawn nodded. “How they had it figured, I expect. Hills coming together there, like they do, makes a natural pass. Only way through is by the road.” He raised his glance to meet hers. “Be a good idea for you to double back, keep clear of this.”
Holly’s chin set itself firmly. “I’d feel better with you—safer.”
Shawn thought back to those earlier moments in the yard at Underwood’s when Rufe Mysak had first seen the girl and had swept her with his hungering appraisal. Keeping her close by where he could watch out for her would be better.
“Then listen close. Want you to stay on my right, in behind my horse until we reach that flat you see about a quarter mile below us. We get there, you slap your spurs to that sorrel and head for the road. Once you’re on it—don’t stop until you reach town. Understand?”
She signified her agreement, but there was a frown on her face. “What are you going to do?”
His plan was to keep himself between her and the men in the brush, draw fire away from her, while at the same time he tried to pin them down with his own weapon.
But he said, “Sort of curious about them. Think I know who they are, but I aim to have myself a look, be sure.”
The explanation satisfied her and they moved on, letting the horses pick their way over the uncertain, steep footing. Careful as they were, there was a continual dislodging of small rocks and a steady spilling of gravel. As they drew nearer to the flat strip of almost level ground Shawn had pointed out to Holly, he drew his pistol and rode with it in his hand. When they came to the little flat they would not be far from the arroyo.
The sudden, spiteful crack of a gun brought all thought, all speculation to an end. Shawn jerked the chestnut to one side, allowed Holly to crowd by onto the flat.
“Get out of here!” he yelled, and slapped the sorrel on the rump so that the horse leaped away and plunged off the low bank to the level racing for the road some fifty yards farther on. Starbuck, wheeling the gelding, fired blindly into the brush-filled arroyo. Again a pistol cracked. The bullet splatted dully into the bluff behind Shawn.
He was in a bad position—and an easy target. Throwing a hasty glance at Holly that assured him that she had gained the road and was quickly pulling out of danger, he cut back, pivoting so sharply the chestnut came up on his hind legs, and then jumped the horse off the ledge into a narrow wash several feet below.
Shots were coming in quick succession now, but he was in back of a mound of rock and no longer in the open as before. Two more guns began to blast. Apparently only one of the trio had spotted him and Holly at the start. The others, hiding elsewhere in the undergrowth—probably on the opposite side of the arroyo—had heard and come to add their support.
Bent low over his horse, he hurried along the floor of the gully, holding his return fire. The men in the brush continued to hammer the side of the hill where they had seen him last—thinking him still in the undergrowth. Abruptly he broke into the open. Instantly the pattern of shooting changed. A bullet sang off the metal horn of his saddle; another clipped the brim of his hat, while others spurted sand around the chestnut’s hooves.
Cursing, he spurred the big horse ahead in a quick surge for the road, snapped two shots into the arroyo at the point where the firing seemed to come from. At once two horses shied out of the stunted trees and brushes onto a bare strip of ground at the base of the slope. His bullets had evidently hit close, frightening them. A man appeared, racing to grab the trailing reins of the animals before they could bolt.
Anger, but no surprise, ripped through Starbuck as he recognized Brock. Surely, Guy Rutter and Mysak would be the others who had lain in wait for him.
Emptying his pistol into the brush as he reached the hard surface of the road, he veered right. A shoulder of weed-covered earth closed him off from view of the arroyo. He took a deep breath as the shooting suddenly ended.
Pointing the chestnut up the long slope, he began to rod the spent cartridges from the cylinder of his forty-five, and thumb in fresh loads. Sam Underwood was going to be surprised when he learned his army pals were f
ar from friends.
Thirteen
Holly was waiting at the top of the hill.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he shouted, furious at her. Halting the chestnut, he twisted about, threw his glance down to the arroyo. Fortunately, Rutter and the others had not yet begun a pursuit.
“I told you to ride for town,” he added, his manner softening.
The worried look on her face had faded. “I—I was afraid for you. I had to know—I had to wait.”
“I’m fine,” he said gruffly. “Let’s move out. They’ll be coming.”
At once they cut into the road, here another long, flowing grade. The gelding was winded after his fast climb and Starbuck did not press him too hard. Their lead on the three would last for a time. If the men did close the gap, he wanted the gelding ready for another hard run.
“Who were they?”
Shawn had expected the question, and had been undecided at first as to how to answer it. For her own safety she should know.
“Guy Rutter and his sidekicks—Brock and Mysak.”
Holly stared at him in astonishment. “You mean those friends of my father—the ones who came to see him?”
“Friends!” Starbuck echoed the word scornfully. “Can’t call them that. They wanted this letter of your pa’s so bad they didn’t mind killing to get it.”
The girl was silent for a full minute as the horses pounded steadily on. Then, “It’s hard to believe.”
‘The hard thing to figure is how they can be friends of your pa’s. Not the kind I’d expect him to have.”
“It goes back to the war. They were in the same outfit. I suppose that explains it. They were all right then, but they’ve changed.”
“Somebody sure has,” Starbuck muttered, more to himself than to Holly. “Are we far from town?”
“Only an hour or so. What are you going to do about them?”
“Nothing—unless they keep pushing. I figure it’s up to your pa. They’re his problem.”
“The sheriff should be told about it. You could have been killed.”