by Ray Hogan
The rancher spat. “Your job was to keep an eye on Lynch. If you’d’ve done the job, we wouldn’t be here now.”
“Not exactly the way I understood it,” Shawn replied.
“Was the way I meant it!” Huckaby snapped.
Starbuck shrugged. He guessed he should have taken the lawman’s words more seriously; he doubted, however, if it would have made any difference. Likely Mason Lynch would have done what he pleased. But perhaps the thought could be turned to his advantage.
“Good reason why it ought to be me that runs him down,” he said.
A slyness came into Virgil Huckaby’s eyes. “Maybe so. You got some idea where he’ll go?”
“Nothing for sure. He mentioned a few things that might help.”
“Like what?” Barney Canfield asked quickly.
Starbuck gave the rancher a dry smile. “I’m not about to tell you—or anybody else—not the way things are around here.”
“I’m the law,” Huckaby said. “You’ll tell me, or I’m slapping you in jail.”
Shawn hadn’t considered that possibility. Now he studied the marshal narrowly. Huckaby was bluffing, he concluded.
“Suit yourself,” he said. “I figure I can find him, but it’ll have to be on my terms. You don’t go for that, then forget it.”
“Just what we’re going to do,” Canfield stated, loud and flat. “Like as not the two of you are working together, anyway. Maybe you’d find him, but it’d be to join up so’s the both of you could keep riding. Boys, I’m calling for a posse. Everyone of you willing to—”
“Back up, now, Barney,” Huckaby cut in, stepping into the center of the room. “Posse comes under the heading of my business, and it’ll take its orders from me.”
The rancher bobbed his head, smiled. “’Scuse me, Virg. I know that, but I want to get things started. I don’t aim to let my brother’s killer get away. Want to say right now, I’ll pay a hundred dollars gold to the man who gets him.”
“Dead or alive?” a voice asked.
“Makes no difference to me—”
“It damn well does to me!” Huckaby said, raising his hands for silence. “Any of you aiming to ride along is going to take my orders. That don’t suit your fancy, then pull out now, go home, don’t mix in. That clear?”
There was no direct reply, only a murmur and a shuffling of booted feet on the dusty floor.
“All right, then,” the lawman continued. “Let’s get this thing organized. Couple of you trot over to Yaqui Joe’s, roust him out. Bring him to Kemmer’s place. We’ll start from there soon’s it’s light.”
“What do we have to wait for?” Canfield protested. “Why ain’t we leaving now?”
“Nobody knows what direction he took off in,” Kemmer explained.
“Would’ve rode south—for the border,” Canfield said. “That’d be my guess.”
Shawn felt a twinge of alarm. In his judgment also, Mason would have taken that route, not for the border however, but for the Mescals, where he could hide out and rest the bay until the horse was better able to travel. Fortunately, no one in the crowd seemed to remember Lynch’s place.
“New Mexico line’s closer,” a hook-nosed puncher commented. “Was it me, I’d take my chances that way. ‘Specially was I forking a lame horse.”
“Yeah, reckon you could be right,” the rancher said. He sucked at his lips, glanced over the crowd. “Virg’s right. It’ll be smart to wait for daylight, then put the Indian on his trail. Meanwhile, we can do our congregating at Kemmer’s, sort of get set.”
“Want everybody on a fresh horse,” Huckaby said. “Ain’t no telling how far we’ll be riding.”
“Till we catch him, that’s how far,” Canfield said. “Want that understood. Nobody quits and goes home till we’ve got him caught—and took care of.” He paused, looked around, and then pointed at Starbuck. “What about him?”
“He’s coming with us,” the lawman said promptly. “Claims he’s got some idea of where Mason might’ve gone. Fine. I figure if the trail Yaqui Joe digs up heads off in the direction Starbuck’s thinking of—then we can make a straight run for whatever it is he’s got in mind, save ourselves a lot of time that’d be lost in tracking.”
Canfield nodded slowly. “Sounds good but maybe you’re overlooking one thing—how do you know he’ll tell us?”
Huckaby smiled grimly. “Oh, he’ll talk up, all right. Don’t worry about it.”
Shawn looked closely at the lawman, also smiled. “That mean I’m being arrested?”
“More or less,” the marshal replied. “Main thing, I want you handy so’s we can find Lynch, get this thing squared away. Play it smart and everything’ll work out fine for you.” Huckaby hesitated, eyes on the men clustered around Barney Canfield and shifting toward the doorway. “Now, you get your horse, meet us at the saloon.”
Starbuck watched the marshal turn away, become a part of the general exodus. Riding with Huckaby and his posse was the last thing he had in mind to do; what must be done was find Mason Lynch, warn him, and get him safely to some other town until the matter of Kit Canfield’s death could be straightened out.
It could be possible that Mason, in a fit of anger, had killed the rancher, although Shawn still found the idea hard to accept. But if it did turn out to be a fact, then Lynch was entitled to a trial before a judge and jury and not deserving of rope justice—which was what he would get if the posse caught up with him. Perhaps Virg Huckaby sincerely believed he could control Canfield and those who would be riding with him, but there was every doubt in Starbuck’s mind.
The last of the men had gone. Wheeling, Shawn stepped out into the runway. It was best he act quickly, gain all the time he could. Moving along the row of stalls until he came to the one in which the sorrel stood, he entered, began to throw his gear into place. Finished, he took the gelding’s headstall in his hand, backed him into the runway.
Allowing the reins to trail on the littered floor, Starbuck turned, trotted to the yet open double doors, peered into the street. Lights were now on in the Maricopa and a few horses were tied at the hitchrack; the posse was beginning to assemble. He probed the surrounding area carefully. No one was in sight.
But it would be smart to take no chances—use the stable’s rear entrance; in so doing he could be certain that his riding off alone rather than joining with the others forming the posse at the Maricopa—as he had been ordered by Huckaby to do—would not be noticed. Returning to the sorrel, he took up the reins and moved into the gloom filling the rear of the barn.
Thirteen
Starbuck reached the end of the runway, cut right into an aisle angling in from that point. The rear door was directly ahead. He halted. It was too easy. It didn’t seem likely that Marshal Virg Huckaby would put him under arrest, more or less, order him to report later at the place where the posse was to assemble—and then simply walk away and let him do as he wished.
He considered that improbability for a full minute, and then deciding that, if so, two could play at the game of cleverness, and moved on, stopping again a half stride in the open. Poised there, he cocked his ear into the night. There was only the calm silence of the early hour. Still leading the sorrel, he stepped farther into the clear, away from the barn, paused. The hush persisted and his searching glance found nothing suspicious. He guessed he had misjudged the lawman; there appeared to be no one watching the livery stable after all.
Turning, he swung onto the saddle, kneed the gelding gently, sent him walking briskly down the lane between the wagon yard and a corral. Fortunately he was moving away from the buildings and the town itself, thus would run no risk of being spotted from the street. All he need do was proceed on a direct line and he would soon be in the low, brush-covered hills to the west of the settlement. Once there he would be free to move as he wished without fear of being observed.
Cigarette smoke . . .
At the first pungent whiff borne to him in the slight breeze, Starbuck drew up short. He
’d been right. Huckaby was keeping an eye on him—undoubtedly had a man watching the front of Fortney’s, too. He smiled grimly into the darkness. Huckaby was not about to let him slip off and find Mason Lynch on his own; he was permitting him to go but he and the posse would be following at a discreet distance.
Silent, Shawn hunched over the saddle, pulled his feet free of the stirrups, and dropped to the ground, thus eliminating the silhouette his sitting high on the gelding afforded. Standing in the cool semi-darkness behind the stable, he tried to locate the source of the tobacco smoke, reasoning that since it came in to him on the breeze, the man would be somewhere directly ahead—to the west.
Cautious, he started forward, halted as not one but a pair of small, red eyes glowing in the night appeared on his left. The eyes brightened and dulled with pulsing regularity. Huckaby had put two men on the job.
Shawn considered that. One could be to hurry with the word of his so-called escape to the lawman, waiting with the remainder of the posse at Kemmer’s saloon; the second could have been directed to follow, leaving suitable trail markings and signs for them to go by.
Virg Huckaby had him, Shawn recognized the fact. The lay of the land was such that he was forced to pass directly in front of the men if he intended to reach the hills. Nor was there an alternative; he could expect the street side of Fortney’s to be under surveillance, also. All he could do was play out the hand, endeavor to outsmart the lawman in some way.
Mounting, Starbuck again moved forward. Instantly the twin glows disappeared. They had seen him, had rid themselves of their smokes. Keeping his eyes straight ahead, Starbuck rode on.
Shortly he came to the first of the sand hills, turned into a narrow draw crowded with sage and other rank growth, pressed on, resisting the almost overpowering urge to look back, see if Huckaby’s men were following the plan he had assumed.
A hundred yards later he swung left, and urging the gelding to an easy trot, continued due south until he was well below the town. There, once again he altered direction, aiming deliberately for the rugged, rock-studded butte area sprawling like a great, ugly scar east of the settlement.
Once inside the welter of boulders, overhanging ledges, and tall mesquite, he ventured his first glance to the rear—almost instantly located a lone pursuer. The man was following his trail patiently in the pale light of the stars. There was no sign of a second tracker; it evidently had been as he suspected, and likely at that very moment Huckaby and his posse were preparing to get underway.
The country turned rougher, grew steadily wilder. On all sides now were ragged-faced buttes, arroyos that were deep-cut and twisting, filled with mesquite, greasewood, and hedges of tough Apache plume. It was all somewhat of a surprise to Shawn Starbuck; he did not expect to see so much desert growth this far in. It was as if a section of that harsh, burning country miles to the south and west had been lifted bodily by some gigantic hand and arbitrarily set down in an area given over primarily to forested, grassy hills.
He should be changing course again, not get too deep into the brake before he put into effect his plan for finding Mason Lynch. But the maneuver would require skill; he must be certain the rider dogging his tracks did not suspect. He glanced about, eyes straining in the half-light to see clearly his surroundings. He was presently following a fairly well-defined path that wound in and out of the rocks and brush as it gradually ascended to a mesa, dimly visible farther on.
Abruptly the path veered into a narrow aisle lying between almost perpendicular walls of reddish earth. Shawn halted, eyes on the ground. Hoofprints were plentiful in the space between the formations, indicating that the passage was undoubtedly the sole route for reaching the plateau on beyond the brake.
He rode the sorrel into the passageway for a short distance, then backed him out. Once again in the wider area he swung the gelding off into the thick brush, and there, well concealed, waited. Within a few minutes Huckaby’s man came into view, a hunched shape on his saddle, patiently working out the path.
Shawn delayed until he was certain the rider had entered the narrow pass, and then not wanting to take any chances of running head-on into the posse, hastily backtracked to where he could cut away and there pointed the sorrel south. He was reasonably sure that his activities would keep Huckaby and his posse puzzling over the trail for some time and thus leave him free to search the Mescal country for Lynch.
Free. The word evoked a strange feeling within him. This breaking away, this eluding of Virgil Huckaby and the law he represented, placed him in the same category as Mason Lynch; now they were both outlawed. He shrugged. It was a situation that had been forced upon him, and with a man’s life at stake, he had no regrets.
He had not noticed but it had grown lighter. A pale flare filled the heavens to the east and the stars were beginning to fade. Not long until sunrise. He would be reaching the country where he could expect to find Mason at about the right time.
Mason would not have covered much ground despite the several hours’ start that he had. His horse was in no condition for a hard, fast ride, and thinking it over, Shawn concluded his best bet was to move south as quickly as possible, get near the Mescals, and then backtrack, work his way north. In so doing, and assuming he had figured right and Mason was heading for his ranch, he could expect to encounter the man.
He wondered what Mason would find at his ranch. Apparently he had only begun its building when the war came and he rode out to fight. Those four years, plus the succeeding ten he had spent in prison, added up to a period that could have nullified and completely erased all the effort he had put into the property.
Starbuck hoped it would prove otherwise. Lynch was a man desperately seeking haven, a refuge from a life that had not been kind. And now he was opening a new and tragic chapter. Whether he had been the one who murdered Kit Canfield or not was a situation that should be faced squarely and settled.
Mason must be made to realize that. There was no future whatsoever for him if he elected to avoid the confrontation, decided to run, hide from the law and those pseudo-lawmen, the bounty hunters who would come swarming in as soon as the reward Barney Canfield most certainly would post, was noised about.
No man could find fulfillment in a life forever peopled by threatening shadows; Mason Lynch should understand that, and if innocent, take steps to clear his name. But if he were guilty, if he had been the one who killed Canfield, then—Starbuck shrugged, not liking the question that thought raised.
The law declared a man must be made to face up to his crimes; could he, by force if necessary, capture and take Mason Lynch in for that purpose? Must he personally assume what would be a most disagreeable obligation? Mason was a beaten man, one scarred cruelly by life, but the law was the guideline to which all must adhere and to which there can be no exceptions. He hoped he would not be forced to make any such decision.
An hour later he broke out into a land of rolling ridges covered with gently waving grass, sage-filled draws, and small oases of cottonwoods and other trees. A stream sparkled along the floor of a vast, far-flung valley, and at its far end he saw the rambling formations he assumed to be the Mescal Mountains.
Dismounting, he picketed the sorrel in a small clearing and made his way to a shoulder of rock thrusting itself, like a thick shelf, into the swale and affording a lofty and excellent vantage point from which to observe. He was about midway of the basin, he judged, looking to both directions, and should be well below the slower-traveling Mason—between him and the Mescals—if he had been right. He had only guessed that Lynch would choose this route; he could be wrong.
But he was confident that he had read the man’s mind correctly. Mason, in reality, had no choice when you came right down to it; a slow horse and caught near dead center of the territory, the logical answer would be the Mescals, where, on his own land, he could lie low until the horse had recovered and it was safe to move on.
Fixing his eyes on the southernmost point of the valley visible to him, Shawn began
a methodic search along the stream until he found the trail he knew would be there. In this land, not too great a distance now from the desert, travelers, both man and beast, never strayed far from water in their migrations. To do so invited hardship, occasionally even death.
Slowly, painstakingly, Starbuck began to trace the course of the creek with its complementing path, following it with his eyes as it wound in and out of the trees, through the brush, now and again in the open where it became a silver ribbon glinting brightly in the sunlight.
Halfway across a narrow flat, movement arrested his attention. He came to his feet slowly, squinting to concentrate his vision as well as cut down the glare—and then settled back as a doe mule deer walked leisurely out of the brush, paused to survey the surrounding area for possible enemies while testing the breeze with her nostrils. Reassured, she meandered on down to the water, head bobbing rhythmically with each graceful step.
Suddenly the doe came to a rigid alert. A shift in the light breeze had apparently carried a warning to her. Starbuck edged farther out on the ledge, probed the country above the poised animal with a careful gaze.
He saw then what had startled the animal. It was Mason Lynch, again on foot and leading his horse, making his way along the stream.
Fourteen
For a considerable length of time Starbuck studied Lynch’s slow progress along the trail. Then, fixing in his mind the location of a rock bench well ahead of the man where an interception could be made, he returned to the sorrel, mounted and rode down the slope.
He reached the foot of the long grade without incident. Keeping above and back from the creek, he made his way to the overhanging slab of granite he had selected and halted. There again picketing the gelding but this time with greater care, he crawled to the extreme lip of the ledge. From that elevated position he could look down upon the stream and its adjacent trail as well as observe anyone approaching from all directions.
He would be above Mason’s line of vision, and that assured him. There was no way of anticipating the man’s reaction, now that he was a fugitive, faced possibly with a death sentence or at the least the promise of spending the remainder of his life behind prison walls. And a man once considered a friend could now be an enemy in his eyes; therefore, it was only prudent to proceed with caution.