Riders Of the Dawn (1980)

by L'amour, Louis

  Shrugging, I drew back a little. “Honey, there are som e things a man must do, some things he has to do. If meetin g Bodie Miller is one of them, I’ll do it. Meeting a man wh o challenges you may seem very foolish to a woman’s world , but a man cannot live only among women. He must live wit h men, and that means he must be judged by their standards , and if I hack down for Miller, then I’m through here.”

  “You can go away! You could go to California. You coul d go and straighten out some business for me there! Matt, yo u could—”

  “No. I’m staying here.”

  There were more words and hard words but when I lef t her I had not changed. Not that I underestimated Miller i n any way. I had seen such men before. Billy the Kid had bee n like him. Bodie Miller was full of salt now. He was riding hi s luck with spurs. Remembering that sallow face with its hard , cruel eyes, I knew I could not live in the country aroun d Hattan’s without facing Miller.

  Yet I saw nothing of Bodie Miller in Hattan’s, and too k the trail for the Two Bar, riding with caution. The chance s were he was confident enough now to face me, especiall y after the smashing I’d taken. Moreover, the Slades were i n the country and would be smarting over the beating I ha d given them.

  The Two Bar looked better than anything I had seen in a long time. It was shadowed now with late evening, but th e slow smoke lifted straight above the chimney, and I could se e the horses in the corral. As I rode into the yard a ma n materialized from the shadows. It was Jonathan Benaras, wit h his long rifle.

  When I swung down from the saddle he stared at m y face, but said nothing. Knowing he would be curious, I e xplained simply. “Morgan Park and I had it out. It was quit e a fight. He took a licking.”

  “If he looks worse than you he must be a sight.”

  He does, believe me. Anybody been around?”

  “Nary a soul. Jolly was down the wash this afternoon.

  Them cows are sure fattenin’ up fast. You got you a might y fine ranch here. Paw was over. He said if you need anothe r hand you could have Zeb for the askin’.”

  “Thanks. Your father’s all man.”

  Jonathan nodded. “I reckon. We aim to be neighbors t o folks who’ll neighbor with us. We won’t have no truck wit h them as walks it high an’ mighty. Paw took to you right off.

  Said you come an’ faced him like a man an’ laid your cards o n the table.”

  Mulvaney grinned when I walked through the door, an d then indicated the food on the table. “Set up. You’re just i n time.”

  It was good, sitting there in my own home, seeing th e light reflecting from the dishes and feeling the warmth an d pleasantness of it. But the girl I wanted to share these thing s with was not here to make it something more than just a house.

  “You are silent tonight,” Mulvaney said shrewdly. “Is i t the girl, or is it the fight?”

  I grinned, and my face hurt with the grinning. “I wa s thinking of the girl, but not of Park.”

  “I was wondering about the fight,” Mulvaney replied. “I w ish I’d been there to see it.”

  I told them about it, and as I talked I began to wonde r what Park would do now, for he would not rest easy in jail , and there was no telling what trick Jake Booker might be u p to. And what was it they wanted? Until I knew that, I kne w nothing.

  The place to look was where the Bar M and the Two Ba r joined. And tomorrow I would do my looking, and would d o it carefully.

  On this ride Mulvaney joined me, and I welcomed th e company as well as the Irishman’s shrewd brain. We rod e east toward the vast wilderness that lay there, east toward th e country where I had followed Morgan Park toward his rendezvous with Jack Slade, east toward the maze of canyons , desert, and lonely lands beyond the river.

  “See any tracks up that way before?” Mulvaney aske d suddenly.

  “Some,” I admitted, “but I was following the fresh trail.

  We’ll have a look around.”

  “Think it will be that silver you found out about i n Booker’s office?”

  “Could be. We’ll head for Dark Canyon Plateau an d work north from there. I think that’s the country.”

  “I’d feel better,” Mulvaney admitted after a pause, “i f we knew what had become of that Slade outfit. They’ll b e feelin’ none too kindly after the whippin’ you gave ‘em.”

  I agreed. Studying the narrowing point, I knew we woul d soon strike a trail that led back to the northwest, a trail tha t would take us into the depths of Fable Canyon. Nearing tha t trail, I suddenly saw something that looked like a horse track.

  A bit later we found the trail of a single horse, freshly sho d and heading northeast—a trail no more than a few hours old!

  “Could be one of the Slade outfit,” Mulvaney speculate d dubiously. “Park’s in jail, an’ nobody else would come ove r here.”

  We fell in behind, and I could see these tracks mus t have been made during the night. At one place a hoof ha d slipped and the earth had not yet dried out. Obviously, then , the horse had passed after the sun went down.

  We rode with increasing care, and we were gaining.

  When the canyon branched we found a waterhole where th e rider had filled his canteen and prepared a meal.- “He’s n o woodsman, Mulvaney. Much of the wood he used was no t good burning wood and some of it green. Also, his fire was i n a place where the slightest breeze would swirl smoke in hi s face.”

  “He didn’t unsaddle,” Mulvaney said, “which means h e was in a hurry.”

  This was not one of Slade’s outlaws, for always on th e dodge, nobody knew better than they how to live in th e wilds. Furthermore, they knew these canyons. This might b e a stranger drifting into the country looking for a hideout. Bu t it was somewhere in this maze that we would find what it wa s that drew the interest of Morgan Park.

  Scouting around, I suddenly looked up. “Mulvaney! He’s whipped up! There’s no trial out!”

  “Sure an he didn’t take wings to get-out of here,” Mulvane y growled. “We’ve gone blind, that’s what we’ve done.”

  Returning to the spring we let the horse drink while I d id some serious thinking. The rock walls offered no route o f escape. The trail had been plain to this point and the n vanished.

  No tracks. He had watered his horse, prepared a meal—a nd afterward left no tracks. “It’s uncanny,” I said. “It look s like we’ve a ghost on our hands.”

  Mulvaney rubbed his grizzled jaw and chuckled. “Wh o would be better to cope with a ghost than a couple o f Irishmen?”

  “Make some coffee, you bogtrotter,” I told him. “Mayb e then well think better.”

  “It’s a cinch he didn’t fly,” I said later, over coffee, “an d not even a snake could get up these cliffs. So he rode in, an d if he left, he rode out.”

  “But he left no tracks, Matt. He could have brushe d them out, but we saw no signs of brushing. Where does tha t leave us?”

  “Maybe—the idea came suddenly—“he tied somethin g on his feet?”

  “Let’s look up the canyons. He’d be most careful righ t here, but if he is wearin’ somethin’ on his feet, the furthe r he goes the more tired he’ll be—or his horse will be.”

  “You take one canyon, an I’ll take the other. We’ll mee t back here in an hour.”

  Walking, leading my buckskin. I scanned the ground.

  At no place was the sand hard packed, and there were track s of deer, lion, and an occasional bighorn. Then I found a plac e where wild horses had fed, and there something attracte d me. Those horses had been frightened!

  From quiet feeding they had taken off suddenly, and n o bear or lion would frighten them so. They would leave, bu t not so swiftly. Only one thing could make wild horses fly s o quickly—man!

  The tracks were comparatively fresh, and instinct tol d me this was the right way. The wild horses had continued t o run. Where their tracks covered the bottom of the canyon , and where the unknown rider must follow them, I shoul d find a clue. And I did, almost at on
ce.

  Something foreign to the rock and manzanita caught m y eye. Picking it free of a manzanita branch, I straightened up.

  It was sheep’s wool!

  Swearing softly, I swung into the saddle and turne d back. The rider had brought sheepskins with him, tied som e over his horse’s hoofs and some over his own boots, and s o left no defined tracks. Mulvaney was waiting for me. “Fin d anything?”

  He listened with interest and then nodded. It was a good idea he had. Well, we’ll get him now!”

  The trail led northeast and finally to a high, windswep t plateau unbroken by anything but a few towering rocks o r low-growing sagebrush. We sat our horses squinting agains t the distance, looking over the plateau and then out over th e vast maze of canyons, a red, corrugated distance of lan d almost untrod by men. “If he’s out there,” Mulvaney said , “we may never find him. You could lose an army in that.”

  “We’ll find him. My hunch is that it won’t be far.” I nodde d at the distance. “He had no packhorse and only a canteen t o carry water, and even if he’s uncommonly shrewd, he’s no t experienced in the wilds.”

  Mulvaney had been studying the country. “I prospecte d through here, boy.” He indicated a line of low hills to th e east. “Those are the Sweet Alice Hills. There are ruins ahea d of us, and away yonder is. beef basin.”

  “We’ll go slow. My guess is we’re not far behind him.”

  As if in acknowledgment of my comment, a rifle sho t rang out sharply in the clear air! We heard no bullet, but onl y the shot, and then another, closer, sharper!

  “He’s not shootin’ at us!” Mulvaney said, staring wit h shielded eyes. “Where is he?”

  “Let’s move!” I called. “I don’t like this spot!”

  Recklessly, we plunged down the steep trail into th e canyon. Down, down, down! We went racing around elbo w turns of the switchback trail, eager only to get off the skylin e and into the shelter. If the unknown rider had not fired at us , whom had he fired at?

  Who was the rider? Why was he shooting?

  Chapter 11

  Tired as my buckskin was, he seemed to grasp the need fo r getting under cover, and he rounded curves in that trail tha t made my hair stand on end. At the bottom we drew up in a thick cluster of trees and brush, listening. Even our horse s felt the tension, for their ears were up, their eyes alert.

  All was still. Some distance away a stone rattled. Swea t trickled behind my ear, and I smelt the hot aroma of dust an d baked leaves. My palms grew sweaty and I dried them, bu t there was no sound. Careful to let my saddle creak as little a s possible, I swung down, Winchester in hand. With a ‘notio n to wait, I moved away.

  From the edge of the trees I could see no more tha n thirty yards in one direction and no more than twenty in th e other. Rock walls towered above, and the canyon lay ‘hot an d still under the midday sun. From somewhere came the soun d of trickling water, but there was no other sound or movement. My neck felt hot and sticky, and my shirt clung to m y shoulders. Shifting the rifle in my hands, I studied the roc k walls with misgiving. Drying my hands on my jeans, I took a chance and moved out of my cover, moving to a narrow , six-inch band of shade against the far wall. Easing myself t o the bend of the rock. I peered around.

  Sixty yards away stood a saddled horse, head hanging.

  My eves searched and saw nothing, and then, just visibl e beyond a white, water-worn boulder, I saw a hoot and part o f a leg. Cautiously, I advanced, wary for any trick, ready t o shoot instantly. There was no sound but an occasional chuckl e of water over rocks. Then suddenly I could see the dead man.

  His skull was bloody. He had been shot over the ey e with a rifle and at fairly close range. He had probably neve r known what hit him. There was vague familiarity to him, an d his skull bore a swelling. This had been one of Slade’s men , whom I had slugged on the trail to Hattan’s.

  The bullet had struck over the eye and ranged downward , which meant he had been shot from ambush, from a hidin g place high on the canyon wall. Lining up the position, I l ocated a tuft of green that might be a ledge.

  Mulvaney was approaching me. “He wasn’t the man w e followed,” he advised. “This one was comin’ from the othe r way.

  “He’s one of the Slade crowd. Drygulched.”

  “Whoever he is,” Mulvaney assured me, “we can’t tak e chances. The fellow who killed this man shot for keeps.”

  We started on, but no longer were the tracks disguised.

  The man we followed was going more slowly now. Suddenly I s potted a boot print. “Mulvaney!” I whispered hoarsely. “That’s the track of the man who killed Bud Maclaren!”

  “But Morgan Park is in the hoosegow!” Mulvane y protested.

  “Unless he’s broken out. But I’d swear that was the trac k found near Maclaren’s body. The one Canaval found!”

  My buckskin’s head came up and his nostrils dilated.

  Grabbing his nose, I stifled the neigh, and then stared up th e canyon. Less than a hundred yards away a dun horse wa s picketed near a patch of bunchgrass. Hiding our horses in a box canyon, we scaled the wall for a look around. Fro m the top of the badly fractured mesa we could see all th e surrounding country. Under the southern edge of the mes a was a cluster of ancient ruins and beyond them some dee p canyons. With my glasses shielded from sun reflection by m y hat, I watched a man emerge from a crack in the earth , carrying a heavy sack. Placing it on the ground he remove d his coat and with a pick and bar began working at a slab o f rock.

  “What’s he doin’?” Mulvaney demanded, squinting hi s “Pryin’ a slab of rock,” I told him, and even as I spok e the rock slid, rumbled with other debris, and then settled i n front of the crack. After a careful inspection the man concealed his tools, picked up his sack and rifle, and starte d back. Studying him, I could see he wore black jeans, ver y dusty now, and a small hat. His face was not visible. He bor e no resemblance to anyone I had seen before.

  He disappeared near the base of the mountain, and for a long time we heard nothing.

  “He’s gone,” I said.

  “We’d best be mighty careful,” Mulvaney warned uneasily. “That’s no man to be foolin’ with, I’m thinkin’!”

  A shot shattered the clear, white radiance of the afternoon. One shot, and then another.

  We stared at each other, amazed and puzzled. Ther e was no other sound, no further shots. Then uneasily w e began our descent of the mesa, sitting ducks if he was waitin g for us. To the south and west the land shimmered with heat , looking like a vast and unbelievable city, long fallen to ruin.

  We slid into the canyon where we’d left the horses, and the n the shots were explained.

  Both horses were on the ground, sprawled in pools o f their own blood. Our canteens had been emptied and smashe d with stones. We were thirty miles from the nearest ranch , and the way lay through some of the most ragged country o n earth.

  “There’s water in the canyons,” Mulvaney said at last , but no way to carry it. You think he knew who we were?”

  “If he lives in this country he knows that buckskin o f mine,” I said bitterly. “He was the best horse I ever owned.”

  To have hunted for us and found us, the unknown ma n would have had to take a chance on being killed himself, bu t by this means he left us small hope of getting out alive.

  “We’ll have a look where he worked,” I said. “No us e leaving without knowing about that.”

  It took us all of an hour to get there, and night was nea r before we had dug enough behind the slab of rock to get a t the secret. Mulvaney cut into the bank with his pick. Rippin g out a chunk and grabbing it, he thrust it under my eyes, hi s own glowing with enthusiasm. “Silver!” he said hoarsely.

  “Look at it! If the vein is like that for any distance, this is th e biggest strike I ever saw! Richer than Silver Reef!”

  The ore glittered in his hand. There was what had kille d Rud Maclaren and all the others. “It’s rich,” I agreed, “bu t I’d settle fo
r the Two Bar.”

  Mulvaney agreed. “But still,” he said, “the silver is a handsome sight.”

  “Pocket it, then,” I said dryly, “for it’s a long walk w e have.” “But a walk we can do!” He grinned at me. “Shall we start n ow?” “Tonight,” I said, “when the walking will be cool.”

  We let the shadows grow long around us while we walke d and watched the thick blackness choke the canyons and deepe n in the shadows of trees. We walked on steadily, with littl e talk, up Ruin Canyon and over a saddle of the Sweet Alic e Hills, and down to the spring on the far side of the hills.

  There we rested, and we drank several times. From th e stars I could see that it had taken us better than two hours o f walking to make less than five miles. But now the trail woul d be easier along Dark Canyon Plateau—and then I remembered Slade’s camp. What if they were back there again , holed up in the same place?

  It was a thought, and to go down the canyon towar d them was actually none out of the way. Although the walkin g might be rougher at times, we would have the stream besid e us, a thing to be considered. Mulvaney agreed, and w e descended into the canyon.

  Dark it was there, and quiet except for the rustle o f water over stones, and there was a cool dampness that wa s good to our throats and skins after the heat. We walked on , taking our time, for we’d no records to break. And then w e heard singing before we saw the reflection of the fire.

  We walked on, moving more carefully, for the canyo n walls caught and magnified every sound.

  Three men were about the fire, and one of them wa s Jack Slade. Two were talking while one man sang as h e cleaned his rifle. We reached the edge of the firelight befor e they saw us, and I had my Winchester on them, and Mulvane y that cannon like four-shot pistol of his. “Grab the sky, Slade!”

  I barked the order at him, and his hand dropped and the n froze.

  “Who is it?” he demanded hoarsely, straining his eyes a t us. Our faces being shielded by the brims of our hats, h e could not see enough of them. I stepped nearer so th e firelight reached under my hat brim.

  “It’s Matt Sabre,” I said, “and I’m not wanting to kill yo u or anybody. We want two horses. You can lend them to us , or we’ll take them. Our horses were shot by the same ma n that killed your partner.”