The Sixth Western Novel

by Jackson Gregory

  With a ground baked hard as caliche, Milo and Reilly had to combine their weight to make the dull plowshare bite deep. And then the harness gave way. Yet within an hour they had a shallow grave scooped out.

  They wrapped Ernie Slaughter in a horse blanket, and gathering rocks, they heaped a cairn. When they finished they could find no words to speak over the grave. To Reilly Meyers, who had known Ernie well, a thousand memories were better than words, anyway.

  He removed the crude harness from the horse, gave Walt back the Sharps, and then waited while Milo caught up another horse. They were still in the yard when a horse pounded across the flats, and each man drew his gun and waited.

  The light from the burning house had faded to almost nothing. Occasionally an upright timber burned through and fell with a shower of sparks, but other than that it was all over.

  The rider came plunging on. Finally he caught sight of them and pulled his horse up so short it reared. They recognized Jim Buttelow in the dim light. Buttelow stared at the dying fire.

  He said, “I seen it five miles away from my front porch,” and then he noticed the mound of rocks. He counted faces, nodding recognition one by one. “Ernie,” he said. “Know who done it?”

  “Horgan,” Reilly said. “We’re goin’ after the herd, and him.”

  “I’ll run home for some blankets and come along.”

  “No,” Reilly said, and quickly told him all that had happened.

  Buttelow listened with a respectful silence, then said, “I’ll go get Childress and Al Murdock. Lovelock’s up in the hills or I’d get him too.” He shifted the cartridge belt on his hips. “Three’ll be enough to take that bunch at Winehaven’s.”

  “We’ll get Winehaven,” Reilly said. “You get Burk Seever, but I want that bastard alive. I want to stand by the scaffold and listen to the rope sing.”

  “We’ll get him,” Buttelow said and spurred his horse away.

  Reilly Meyers did not hurry his men when they rode from his ranch yard. He knew how slowly cattle moved. There would be plenty of time, even with Horgan and his bunch pushing them.

  The cold wind told him that he could expect weather within the next few days. Overhead, thin mare’s tail clouds tried to blot out the starlight. Tomorrow morning the clouds would be thicker, wiping out the sun, and by evening there would be rain.

  Ahead lay a tough trail. They were ill equipped for it, but that didn’t bother Reilly at all. He considered the weather—rain here on the flats, but in the mountains, snow. Passes would fill up with wind drifts and the going would be tough. The tougher the better, he decided, and settled down for a long night.

  By morning they had skirted the west shore of the lake and were approaching an isolated cabin. A small pole corral with two skinny milk cows stood behind the house.

  A man came out and watched them come into the yard. They all rode round-shouldered, stiffened by a near freezing night. The sky gave no promise of sun, and when they swung off they stamped their feet to restore circulation.

  “Coffee’s on,” the man said, and stood aside while they filed in. The room was low and warm and tingles ran through Reilly’s fingers as he spread them over the sheet iron stove. Mud and grass chinking stuck from between the logs and a rickety pole bunk sat in one corner.

  “You fellas must have come a ways,” the man said, gently prying.

  “Quite a ways,” Reilly admitted, and accepted a steaming mug of coffee. The fire seemed to thaw them and by the time the man had fried more wheat cakes and another pound of bacon, they were talking.

  “Any cattle go through here last night?” Reilly asked.

  “By jingle!” the man said. “I thought I heard cattle lowin’.” He nodded. “Yeah, I’d say some did. Bein’ pushed too. They yours?”

  “In a manner of speakin’,” Reilly said. “I was winterin’ ’em on the flats for a friend.”

  “Nigh on to four hours ago,” the man said. He motioned for them to sit down, paused and examined each of their faces. Walt’s was black with soot and burned holes showed in his clothes. The man said, “Reckon I’m glad I wasn’t drivin’ them steers. By jingle, I sure am.”

  Talk stopped while they ate. After a second cup of coffee, Reilly rose and the others got up with him. He thanked the man and went outside to the horses.

  At the edge of a small rise he turned to look back, but the man had gone back inside and closed the door. They moved on.

  CHAPTER 11

  Because he knew now where the stolen herd was heading, Reilly swung farther north into solid timber country. For two days he led them on at a leisurely pace and the days grew colder. On the afternoon of the third day it began to rain, a cold drizzle that soaked them to the skin, later turning into fatly swollen drops.

  Through the day’s last remaining light they wound upward, always screened by the thick timber. When Reilly halted to build a fire, the rain had turned to a light snow. By the time they had warmed themselves, the ground was thinly covered and moisture dripped from the trees with a steady drumming.

  Neither Walt nor Milo said anything when Reilly mounted again. They followed him in weary silence, on into the night. Around nine they began to let down off the slopes to a cluster of lighted windows below.

  The raw odor of sawed pine and spruce grew stronger as the distance narrowed, and from the shadowy outlines of the buildings, as well as the gaunt skeleton of the ‘A’ frame loading jammer, Walt Slaughter recognized the logging camp.

  By a bunkhouse bright with light, Reilly dismounted. The cook house sat nearby, the sharp clatter of pans coming from within. The three men walked toward the cook house and opened the back door.

  The warm, moist air washed over them in a smothering wave. They cuddled the long stove while the cook took in their wet clothes, saw the guns, and drew his own conclusions.

  “Coffee there,” he said, and gave the dishwasher hell for hanging up a greasy pan.

  They poured the bowls full of coffee and stood next to the stove, letting the heat make their clothes steam. The cook said something quiet to the dishwasher and the little man hurried out.

  The smell of horses and hot woolens began to fill the room and then the back door opened and a man came in. He looked big enough to fight a grizzly with a switch. The dishwasher came in a moment later and went back to work.

  The big man came over and said, “I’m Monaghan, the side-rod here.”

  “You’ve good coffee,” Reilly said. “We appreciate the heat.”

  “A man’d have to be in a hurry to be out this night,” Monaghan said. He wore a plaid shirt and tufts of dark hair fluffed up at the collar. His hands were hairy across the knuckles and full of strength. Monaghan’s dark eyes moved from one man to the other and there was no fear in the man. They might have been desperate characters for all he knew, but the thought did not bother him.

  “I’m Meyers of Hangnoose.” Reilly waved his hand. “Southeast of here. These men are my crew, Walt and Milo. It seems that we had a whole herd stray all at one time. Since we’re afraid they’ll get lonesome, we thought we’d better go get ’em and bring ’em back.”

  Monaghan looked at Walt Slaughter. “Is that soot on your face, man?”

  “We had a fire,” Reilly murmured over the rim of his cup. “Add to that a dead man. A good man.”

  “Ah now,” Monaghan said, his manner changing. “You’re not fit to go on without gear.” He flipped his head around. “Cookie! Give these men anything they want.”

  “That’s kind of you,” Reilly said. “We’re willin’ to pay.”

  “Faith now,” Monaghan said, “trouble makes all men brothers. I’d do no less for my own. Ye’ll need slickers for this weather. Snow’s buildin’ thick in the hills.”

  “There’s a good pass twenty miles from here,” Reilly said. “They’ll drive through there. And that’s where we’ll be wa
itin’.”

  “You’re free to bunk here,” Monaghan said. “From the looks of you, you need it.”

  “The horses can use it,” Reilly agreed, then nodded. “All right. We’ll put up and get a few hours. In case we pull out early I’ll thank you now for the help.”

  “It’s nothin’, man,” Monaghan said. He went out into the night and the cook filled a large sack with supplies. Milo took it out to the horses, led them to a dry lean-to, and forked down some hay.

  Reilly and Walt came out. Reilly said, “This is good enough,” and took his blankets off the saddle. He made a bed in the hay and rolled up, falling asleep almost immediately.

  He slept soundlessly and in four hours he woke up. The snow was still falling, heavier now. He found a lantern hanging on a nail and lit it. Walt and Milo stirred, then sat up, still groggy with sleep.

  They were rolling their blankets and saddling up when Monaghan came through the falling snow with three slickers and a heavy coat apiece.

  Reilly put his on, as did the others. “We’ll see that these get back here,” he said.

  “Be sure to be in ’em,” Monaghan said. “We’ll not be leaving dead men up there for the wolves.” He motioned off to where the hills flattened. “That’s longer, but there’ll be less snow with the wind blowin’ it. On the way back, you can bed your cattle down up there. There’s a burn, mostly growed over now. I’m thinkin’ you’ll all be needin’ the rest.”

  “We’ll see you on the way back,” Reilly said, and swung into the saddle.

  After leaving the lumber camp, Reilly faced the blunt-topped ridge. After an hour’s ride he crossed over it. The wind here was ripping and snow slanted at a sharp angle as it fell, but the logging boss had been right. The ridge was almost clean and traveling easy.

  Through the rest of the night they worked their way west, dropping off now as the land let down into a high pass. The snow grew deeper and the wind whisked it into cone-shaped drifts and piled it into windrows.

  The cold came through their clothes and feeling deserted their feet. By dawn—a dawn slow in coming and dirty gray—they were deep into this canyon.

  Reilly pushed his horse ahead and studied the ground, although no track would last more than an hour in this sweeping wind. He came back and said, “I think we’re ahead of ’em. Let’s find ourselves a hole and crawl into it.”

  They rode on up canyon for a mile, and then Reilly pointed to some high rocks that formed an overhang. “Up there, Walt. You’ll be on the point. Milo and I will let the herd pass through to you and then we’ll seal off the back. When you hear the shooting, cut loose and close the stopper at the front. Can you shoot a man?”

  “Thinkin’ about Ernie, I can,” Walt said.

  He rode halfway up, then dismounted and led the rest of the way. Milo crossed over to the other side, for he did not want to leave tracks for Horgan and his crew to stumble onto.

  He picked his way back carefully, and when he had gone four hundred yards downwind from Walt, he stopped and picketed his horse. Reilly took a place across from him and lay belly flat in the screening brush.

  Waiting is always the hardest and the cold made it worse. At times a man just had to get up and flail his arms a little and move around, but they did not do this often. By noon Reilly began to think he had guessed wrong. At three in the afternoon he felt sure of it. He was about to signal Milo Bucks when he heard the first lowing of cattle below.

  Milo and Walt heard it also, for the wind was right. Waiting stopped being a chore.

  Through the deeper drifts the leaders plowed on, following two men at the point. Across the bobbing hairy backs, Reilly saw four more men, one of them Horgan, behind the herd, pushing them on. He cocked his .44 Remington and waited.

  They came on slowly, for the snow was deep and they were tired from being pushed hard. Reilly let the leaders pass him. Then, when the drag began to close in, he thrust his gun forward. Holding his gun wrist with the other hand to steady it, he shot a man cleanly from the saddle.

  Someone yelled and whipped his head around quickly, and from the other side Milo Bucks’ .45 Colt bellowed. The rider jackknifed from his horse and lay still.

  Reilly saw Max Horgan then and flipped a shot at him, but Horgan whirled away and the bullet passed clear of him. Up ahead, the deep bass of Walt’s Sharps woke echoes in the hills, and a horse screamed as it went down.

  The cattle stopped and tried to mill, but the snow formed a chute on each side of them. The other rider with Horgan was shooting at anything he thought could conceal a man. Reilly followed him in his sights, then squeezed off. The .44 recoiled and the man dropped his gun, falling forward in the saddle and clutching a shattered arm.

  Horgan and Milo Bucks were exchanging shots so Reilly shifted his aim, trying to get a good bead on the man. Horgan spurred his horse in circles to make a difficult target and Reilly shot twice more without effect.

  Suddenly, Horgan had had enough. He drove his spurs to the horse and ran down the back trail. Milo fired a tardy shot after him but it missed. There was no further shooting from the point, so Reilly rose from his position. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he yelled, “Come on out! It’s all over!”

  Milo had trouble mounting his horse and when he worked his way down to the drag Reilly saw the bloody bandage Milo had fashioned out of his neckerchief. The bullet had passed through his thigh, for blood showed on both sides.

  “That bad?” Reilly yelled.

  “I’ll live!” Milo shouted. “How the hell do we turn ’em in here?”

  “From the other end!” Reilly said, and moved up the side hill again. They fought their way through the snow to the point and found Walt sitting his horse. A dead man lay in the snow, half out of sight.

  Turning a herd in this closed place wouldn’t be easy. They removed their slickers, waving them and shouting to startle the leaders. For a few minutes there was only frantic milling. Then Reilly and Milo worked their way into the herd. Pressing incessantly, they began to turn the cattle, one by one. Within an hour the steers were moving back down the slash they had trampled in the snow.

  Walt kept looking back until Reilly snapped, “Leave the bastards. They paid for what they got.”

  At noon the snowing stopped and Reilly felt easier. He ached all over and his eyes burned continually from lack of sleep. Milo rode hunched over in the saddle. His leg bothered him, but he said nothing about it.

  They pushed on, covering ten more miles before nightfall, leaving the canyon trail, angling up the windblown side hills. The steepness made rough going, which was in turn canceled out by the lightness of the snow.

  At nightfall the herd entered a wide burn area. Reilly began to bed them down, circling the herd until they milled at a slow walk, then stopped altogether.

  Walt Slaughter slumped in the saddle, bone weary and troubled in mind. Milo tilted his chin to his chest when he stopped, and sat his horse without moving. Reilly came up and said, “Stay here, Walt. Build a fire. I’m going in to the logging camp with Milo. He’s been hit.”

  “Hit?” Walt’s head came up slowly. “Hell, I didn’t know that.”

  “I’ll be back in the morning,” Reilly said.

  He led Milo’s horse from there on, letting the young man cling to the saddlehorn with both hands. Milo rode with his leg dangling and the cold had made the bleeding stop.

  For three hours Reilly kept working his way deeper into the timber, guided by a natural sense of direction that never seemed to leave him. Near midnight he raised the first lights of the logging camp.

  Reilly dipped off the last downcast slope, moving around bare stumps upthrust through the snow. He pulled his gun to fire it as a signal, but then remembered that he had never reloaded it. Putting it away, he moved across the flats, past the log stack and tailing pile, and dismounted wearily by the cook shack.

  Milo co
uld barely stand when Reilly lifted him off the horse and staggered with him into the cook shack. The spindly cook dropped a magazine and stared goggle-eyed when they came in. Reilly’s face bristled with stiff whiskers and his eyes burned deep in their sockets.

  “Get Monaghan,” Reilly said, and hoisted Milo to a table close to the stove. He stripped off Milo’s coat to get the heat to him and was heating water when Monaghan came storming in, his suspenders dangling.

  Monaghan’s caulked boots plucked up small tufts of pine, leaving clear indented tracks on the floor behind him. He looked at Milo, pale and drawn on the table.

  “You got your cattle, I see.”

  “I’ve got a hurt boy here,” Reilly said, and leaned his hands on the table edge because he felt weak.

  “Get some coffee in you, man.” Monaghan ripped open Milo’s pant leg. He made a hasty inspection, clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “He’s lost blood, but there’s no broken bones. I hate ’em. A man has to suffer so.”

  Reilly turned from the stove, a steaming mug in his hand. He went to the table and lifted Milo. Milo drank weakly, then lay back again.

  “Where’s the cattle?” Monaghan asked. “And the other man?”

  “He’s with ’em,” Reilly said. “I didn’t want to leave him alone.”

  “Go on back, man,” Monaghan said. “We’ll take care of the lad and send him along when he’s better.” He saw Reilly waver and gave him a slight shove. “Get along with you now. No man can fight it all by himself.” Monaghan grinned. “Faith, how could I turn down another fine Irishman named Reilly?”

  Reilly nodded and put his hand on Monaghan’s shoulder, then went outside to his horse. The tired gelding wanted to go to the lean-to and eat hay, but Reilly pulled him around and rode back toward the burn.

  He traveled faster this time, for he could rest when he got there. Within two hours he saw the feeble cell of light that was Walt Slaughter’s fire. Walt was sitting up, a blanket over his shoulders, and he did not hear Reilly approach until firelight touched the legs and chest of Reilly’s horse.