The mustang hunter’s grulla was galloping in a circle now, sweeping momentarily out of sight behind the willows and reappearing due south, briefly silhouetted against the moon. Blackwine by some miracle was still in saddle.
Ignoring Curtwright, who at this moment was frantically dancing around his wheeling pony with one foot wedged in an oxbow stirrup as he tried to mount, Redding dropped his smoking six-guns and lurched over to the water hole where the pinto was still threshing the pond into a bloody spume.
He leaned over the downed horse and got his Winchester out of scabbard, realizing the part luck had played in the pinto’s not having fallen on top of the rifle.
Fifty yards out on the moon-gilded sage flats, Jace Blackwine was lying on the ground. He had either fallen from saddle or had been bucked off during the brief seconds when Redding’s attention had been fixed on getting his rifle. The grulla had bolted into the distance with stirrup leathers flapping.
But before being unhorsed, the bearded mustanger had had the presence of mind to haul his Remington out of the boot. The moon made a silvery flashing on the blued barrel of the .45-70 as Jace Blackwine settled on one knee and leveled his piece toward the water hole.
Redding yelled, “Cut that, Curtwright!” as he saw the Indian Agent, in saddle at last, spur his buckskin gelding away at a tangent.
As Redding’s .30-30 swung to follow the Indian Agent, Blackwine’s Remington cracked. Redding hit the dirt on his belly as he heard the banshee wail of the steel-jacketed slug close off his right shoulder.
Prone behind the shielding bulk of his pinto, the animal now still in death, Redding thrust Lennon’s carbine across the horse’s rump and lined his sights on the Gargantuan bulk of Jace Blackwine, kneeling out there amid the tufts of silver sage.
Blackwine was levering a fresh shell into the breech of his Remington, cuddling the walnut stock against a hairy jowl.
Redding laid a shot inches from Blackwine, seeing the dust puff up to spray the mustanger’s big shape. Blackwine triggered his return shot, his bullet slapping the dead pinto and jolting the carcass under Redding’s gun barrel.
“Come on in, Jace!” Redding sent his warning yell across the night. “I can fort up here the rest of the night if I have to. I want to take you alive.”
He saw Blackwine shaking his head to clear it. The mustanger’s lifeblood was leaking from the bullet hole in his side—a liver shot, a fatal hit. All Blackwine had left was a savage thirst to take Redding to hell with him. He concentrated now on nursing his strength enough to bring his Remington to a level pointing, waiting for Redding to show his head above the carcass of the pinto at the far rim of the water hole.
Meanwhile Joe Curtwright had made a getaway. The Indian Agent, flogging his buckskin into a dead run, was pounding across the sage flats toward the opening of the valley where Crowfoot Ranch was hidden beyond the intervening ridge. The direction of his flight told a story of some kind, but at the moment the significance of it was lost on Redding.
Curtwright was already out of effective rifle range. Redding dismissed the Reservation Agent from his attention, knowing he could pick his own time for a showdown with Curtwright. At the moment he was pinned to the uncertain cover of his dead horse, facing a bear-shaped foe who, like a wounded grizzly, could be dangerous despite the slug lodged in his guts.
“Show, damn you!” came Blackwine’s frenzied bellow across the prairie. It was as if the mustanger sensed death’s quickening approach and wanted only one more shot at his antagonist.
Clawing at the chin strap which had held his Stetson against his shoulders, Redding flung the headgear aside. The blur of movement baited a shot from Blackwine which made the hat jump in mid-air, its crown perforated by the snap shot.
That feat of marksmanship was no lucky accident. This summer, more than once, Redding had seen Blackwine crease a fleeing fuzztail’s mane at extreme range—a mode of capturing an oreana which most professional horse hunters shunned as too risky.
Redding came to his knees, judging the interval it would take Blackwine to jerk the loading-lever of his Remington. The mustanger was a big target, crouched there on one knee, the wind tugging his cinnamon beard.
Redding notched his gun sights on Blackwine’s chest, dead center, deciding to finish this business.
Before he could squeeze off the payoff shot, he saw Blackwine suddenly topple sideways, a shudder wracking his limp form. In falling, the mustanger had flung his Remington to one side, out of reach.
An old Injun trick, Redding thought, to draw me in closer.
After a short wait, Redding left the shelter of the dead pinto, crawling on all fours toward the willow thicket, pushing his .30-30 ahead of him. Blackwine had a belt gun, but if he was playing possum, the mustanger did not elect to make a draw, now that his target was out in the open.
Then, from a different angle, Redding saw that Blackwine lay with his face ground into the dirt, facing away from the water hole. He believed then that his first slug had killed Blackwine.
Warily, Redding came to his feet, Winchester at hip level. He made a wide circle, so as to approach Blackwine from the rear. A dozen feet from the man, he sighted the sprawling pool of blood crawling into the thirsty sand alongside Blackwine.
He called Blackwine. Then, emboldened by the surety that the man was dead, he walked up and rolled Blackwine’s mushy, inert weight over on his back with a boot toe.
Blackwine’s eyes were crusted over with dirt. This bounty hunter was cold meat now.
A hard-pent breath leaked through Redding’s teeth, sounding like escaping steam. Grounding the butt of his rifle, Redding cocked an ear to the breeze, listening to the subsiding rataplan of hoofbeats marking Curtwright’s continuing flight across the ridge above Crowfoot.
He said aloud, “Jace and that Injun Agent were heading for Joyce’s place, looks like,” and knowing that these men had come from Tondro’s hideout today, he had his moment’s puzzlement over their choice of destination. He concluded that Blackwine—on his way to pay a last visit to his hunting-camp before seeking the refuge of Mexico-had decided to visit Crowfoot on the off-chance that Redding might have gone there.
He wondered if Blackwine and Curtwright had met Tondro and Zedra on their way out of the Navajadas. There was no telling.
Turning his back on Blackwine’s elephantine corpse, Redding returned to the water hole and buckled on his gun belt and retrieved his bullet-punched Stetson.
Now, thinking things over, Redding gave his first attention to Curtwright’s escape and the direction his flight had taken. If they had been en route to Crowfoot, that accounted for their having stopped at this water hole.
Curtwright headed for Crowfoot when he had his chance, Redding recalled; and the thought that the Indian Agent would find the home ranch deserted except for Joyce Melrose and her Mexican cocinera and roustabout filled him with an urgent haste to get on his way.
Blackwine’s grulla had halted to graze a hundred yards out from the water hole. Redding unbuckled the lariat from his pinto’s saddle pommel and, shaking out a loop, made his way toward the dead mustanger’s mount.
The grulla headed up at Redding’s approach, and spooked, but ran head-on into his loop. Gouging his spike heels into the gumbo, Redding made his hand-over-hand approach of the lass rope and caught the grulla’s bit ring.
He repaired the broken rein and mounted, finding Blackwine’s horse docile enough, perhaps because it was gaunted out from its trek from Thunder Rock today.
He spurred back to the water hole, picked up his Winchester, and thrust it into the rawhide boot under Blackwine’s saddle. Then, reining around, he put the grulla into a lope, heading toward the entrance of Crowfoots valley.
Rounding the shoulder of the outthrust ridge, Redding saw the twinkle of lights, marking Joyce’s ranch house at the head of the short valley. A clamor of ranch dogs came downwind
as he hit the wagon road and made his approach. When he was within a quarter of a mile of the house he reined up, becoming aware that the dogs were not barking at him.
Through the moonlight, Redding saw three black dots emerging from the timber north of the ranch. Riders, approaching Crowfoot. One of them could be Joe Curtwright. That left two unaccounted for.
Pulling the grulla off the road to where a clump of smoke trees would conceal him from the view of the trio quartering down the ridge slope, Redding saw two of the riders pass out of sight beyond the shade trees which rimmed the Melrose house.
The third rider spurred down to the road and turned into the poplar-bordered lane. His voice floated back to reach Redding’s ears as he spoke to the dogs which swarmed clamoring around his horse. The collies at once became silent, by which sign Redding knew this third rider was a Crowfoot man, familiar to the dog pack.
Redding saw this rider’s shape cut across the house lights and dismount before the whitewashed gate. Spurring out of the smoke-tree bosque, Redding skirted the fence bordering the road until he came to the outer end of the poplars.
There he saw the front door of the ranch house open and close, leaving its bright rectangle as a fading image on his retina.
That rider might be Joyce herself, coming in from a moonlit ride of the ridge. No, the voice that had silenced the dogs had been a man’s.
Keeping outside the south row of poplars, Redding glimpsed the other two horsemen coming in beyond the Crowfoot barns, their horses limned distinctly against the whitewashed corral fences. Why this splitting up, this approaching Joyce’s house from different angles?
A hundred feet from the ranch house, the dogs caught Redding’s scent and came trooping out. Before they reached him the wind shifted, and the collies turned their attention to the other two riders, who by now had reached the Crowfoot bunkhouse and stopped.
Redding hastily dismounted and tied Blackwine’s grulla to a poplar. He paused a moment, watching the dogs rush toward the bunkhouse, barking inanely. Redding decided that the bunkhouse would be his first objective.
A man’s angry yell sent the dogs yipping toward their kennels behind the main house. Redding saw a match flare as one of the men at the bunkhouse fired a cigarette.
Keeping the blacksmith shed between him and the bunk shack, Redding worked his way closer to the latter building. He heard the bunkhouse door open and close, and shortly thereafter a light glowed behind the gunny sacking which curtained the windows.
Redding left the black maw of the shop and, gun palmed, walked straight to the rear end of the bunkhouse, which had no windows. He found a spot near the rock fireplace, where a chunk of adobe chinking had fallen out, and squatted down for a look inside.
Joe Curtwright, his pouchy face bleached to the color of unbaked dough, was pouring himself a drink at the poker table in the center of the room. Over by the rusty Franklin stove stood a Mexican wearing a steeple-peaked sombrero and a rainbow-hued serape.
The Mexican was Rafael, the courier Blaze Tondro had dispatched to Lavarim Basin to bring Teague Darkin back to Thunder Rock hideout to identify Blackwine’s prisoner.
Redding felt a cold chill of alarm wash through him. That third rider, then, the one who had gone into Joyce’s home, would be Teague Darkin. If Curtwright had told Darkin enough to let Darkin know who Blackwine’s killer had been, then Joyce might be in danger of her life at this moment.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Way of a Woman
Leaving the bunkhouse, Redding headed toward the main house at a run. The collies came trooping from their kennel as Redding was climbing the picket fence, their barking nullifying any hope he might have had to approach the house undetected.
With the dogs nipping at his spurs, Redding mounted the porch steps and headed to the nearest window.
Relief went through him as he saw Joyce Melrose standing before a blazing fireplace, directly below a gold-framed oil portrait of a man in bemedaled Army regimentals—presumably the martyred Major Melrose.
She was wearing an apricot-colored rodeo shirt and split doeskin skirt, as if she had spent some time in the saddle today. Her complete attention was on her visitor, who was seated in a high-backed chair which screened him from Redding’s view.
As the dogs continued their yammering, Redding heard the voice of Teague Darkin addressing Joyce.
“—that’s about how she stacks up, with our beef gather better than half finished. I hate to be always bringing you bad news, dear.”
Joyce’s glance shifted to the front door. Redding saw by the white set of her face that her foreman-fiancé had brought some manner of bad tidings to Crowfoot tonight.
“Go see what’s the matter with those fool collies,” she said. “If you have had supper, I won’t—” Darkin stood up, with a bone-wearied slackness showing in him, and headed toward the door.
Redding was standing directly outside, thumbs hooked in shell belts, when Darkin opened the door.
It took the Crowfoot foreman a full ten seconds to recognize this stubbly-chinned apparition in the trail-dusty range garb.
“Surprised to see me, boss?”
Redding spoke the words as he stepped forward, not waiting for Darkin’s invitation. His eyes were fixed on Darkin’s guns, knowing that if this man had learned the truth of his identity from Curtwright and Rafael tonight, he might try to shoot his way out of this situation.
But Darkin only scowled. “Blagg!” he bit out, as if genuinely surprised. “How come you ain’t on the job with Shorty Hadley?”
Redding laid his unblinking gaze on Darkin, thinking, You’re a damned good actor, or else you don’t want to show your hand in front of Joyce.
“Well,” Darkin snarled, “speak up, Blagg!”
Redding answered Darkin softly. “I’m here to draw my time and vamoose, Darkin. A man’s a fool to work cattle in the Navajadas. I was told that in town before I signed up with you. I’ve had enough.”
Darkin slammed the door shut with unnecessary violence. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning I’m drawing my pay while my hide’s still in one piece.”
Joyce crossed over from the fireplace, her gaze on the livid gash visible on the range detective’s scalp, a wound that hinted of unknown violence out in the Navajada foothills where Shorty Hadley’s roundup crew was working.
“George, what on earth happened to your head?” the girl asked sharply, halting alongside Darkin.
The ramrod’s big hands hung tensely at his sides now, splayed fingers brushing his thonged-down holsters. Redding had his moment of amused suspense, wondering how badly this Crowfoot foreman had been caught off balance by his sudden appearance…
How much, if anything, had Curtwright told Darkin about the events at Tondro’s hideout? If Darkin and the Indian Agent were together in the mysterious Basin intrigues which even Redding could only guess at, then Darkin must know that this man facing him was a Stockmen’s Protective Association detective.
Darkin must have learned from Curtwright the news of Jace Blackwine’s shoot-out, as well.
“Run into trouble, Blagg?”
Darkin’s voice gave no hint of what lay in his mind. If Darkin had received a complete report from the Indian Agent during their recent meeting on the ridge—accidental or planned—then Darkin must surely know now that Joyce Melrose was aware that this man’s name was not George Blagg. Darkin must know that Joyce was responsible for his being here on Crowfoot at all.
It was a preposterously complex situation, and the next few seconds would reveal whether Teague Darkin was involved in the tie-up between Wagonwheel Ranch and the Indian Agent and Tondro’s rustler organization.
“Trouble?” Redding echoed. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly say it was in my contract when one of Tondro’s bunch kidnapped me a couple of days ago, within gunshot range of Hadley’s chuck wagon.”
Darkin licked his lips, thinking this over. His slitted gaze flicked over Redding’s shirt front, as if he might be wondering where Redding had put his law badge.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Blagg,” Darkin said carefully. “What happened?”
Darkin had side-stepped a showdown in front of Joyce.
Redding turned to the girl as he said, “I was working the brush for Crowfoot beef day before yesterday. One of Tondro’s men caught me flat-footed in a box draw. I was taken all the way to Tondro’s hideout somewhere back in the high country. I made a getaway. That was yesterday. I rested up in Trailfork today. Now I’ve come to draw what wages I got coming and head back over the Pass, Miss Melrose.”
The girl’s face took on a flush. She was plainly mystified by Redding’s incoherent story, hinting of so much yet telling so little. She appeared uncertain of what he wanted her to say.
“Of—of course, Mr. Blagg,” she said hesitantly. She glanced at Darkin. “It seems that bad luck isn’t confined to the Axblade lease. Teague just rode in to tell me that at least fifty percent of Crowfoot’s cattle have disappeared from the west range.”
Teague Darkin’s eyes were bright with the man’s rapid-fire scheming. He dragged a hand across his chin and turned to Joyce, saying gruffly, “Tally up Blagg’s time and write him a check, Joyce. I’ll go out and saddle a fresh horse.”
“Aren’t you stopping over here tonight, Teague?”
“No. After what Blagg tells me, I figger I’d better ride over to Hadley’s camp and tell him to drop the roundup where it stands. I’ll have him move his beef to safer range.” Teague Darkin brushed past Redding and ducked out of the house as if in a great hurry to quit this scene. Redding heard the foreman’s boots crunching down the gravel walk outside as he hurried away from the house.
“Doug,” Joyce asked in a sharp whisper, “what really happened to you? Have you uncovered anything that would incriminate Teague, or what?”
The Sixth Western Novel Page 35