Riders Of the Dawn (1980)

by L'amour, Louis

  “What’s wrong with that? Drive ‘em across, and whatever water your herd needs is yours. Just so it doesn’t tak e you more than a week to get ‘em across!”

  Pinder smiled bleakly, but with humor. “Aw, you kno w it won’t take more than a . Day!” He subsided into his chair an d started on the coffee.

  Jake Booker had been taking it all in, looking from one t o the other of us with his sharp little eyes.

  Canaval opened the door and stepped in, looking pal e and drawn, followed by Tom Fox. “Miss Olga could hav e signed for me,” he said. “She’s the owner.”

  You sign, too,” I insisted. “We want to cover ever y eventuality.”

  Booker was smiling. He rubbed his lips with his thin , dry fingers. “All nonsense!” he said briskly. “Both the Ba r M and the Two Bar belong to me. I’ve -filed the papers.

  You’ve twenty-four hours to get off and stay o f “Booker,” I said, “has assumed we are fools. He believe d if he could get a flimsy claim he could get us into court an d beat us. Well, this case will never go to court.”

  Booker’s eyes were beady. “Are you threatening me?”

  Sheriff Will Tharp came into the room. His eyes reste d on Jake, but he said nothing.

  “We aren’t threatening,” I said. “On what does you r claim to the Bar M stand?”

  “Bill of sale,” he replied promptly. “The ranch was actually left to Jay Collins, the gunfighter. He was Maclaren’s brother-in-law. His will left all his property to a nephew, an d I bought it, including the Bar M and all appurtenances thereto!

  Canaval gave me a brief nod.” Sorry , Jake. You’ve los t your money. Jay Collins is not dead.”

  The lawyer jumped as if slapped. “Not dead? I saw -hi s grave!”

  “Booker,” I smiled, “look down the table at Jay Collins!”

  I pointed to Canaval.

  Booker broke into a fever of protest, but I was looking a t Olga Maclaren. She was staring at Canaval, and he wa s smiling.

  “Sure, honey,” he said. “That’s why I knew so muc h about your mother. She was the only person in the world I e ver really loved—until I knew my niece.”

  Booker was worried now, really worried. In a matter o f minutes half his plan had come to nothing. He was shrew d enough to know we would not bluff and that we had proof o f what we said.

  “As for the Two Bar,” I added, “don’t worry about it.

  I’ve my witnesses that the estate was given me. Not that i t will matter to you.”

  “What’s that? What’d you mean?” Booker stared at me.

  “Because you were too greedy. You’ll never rob anothe r man, Booker. For murder, you’ll hang.-

  He protested, but now he was cornered and frightened.

  “You killed Rud Maclaren,” I told him, and if that’s no t enough, you killed one of Slade’s men from ambush. We ca n trail your horse to the scene of the crime, and if you think a western jury won’t take the word of an Indian tracker, you’r e wrong.

  He killed Maclaren?” Canaval asked incredulously.

  “He got him out of the house on some trumped-u p excuse—to show him the silver, or to show him something I w as planning—it doesn’t matter what excuse was used. He shot him and then loaded him on a horse and brought him t o my place. He shot him again, hoping to draw me to th e vicinity, as he wanted my tracks around the body.-

  “Lies!” Booker was recovering his assurance. “Sabre ha d trouble with Maclaren, not I. We knew each other only b y sight. The idea that I killed him is preposterous.”

  He got to his feet. “In any event, what have the ranche s to do with the silver claim of which you speak?”

  “Morgan Park found the claim while trailing a man h e meant to murder—Arnold D’Arcy, who knew him as Cantwell.

  Arnold had stumbled upon the old mine. Park murdered hi m only to find there was a catch in the deal. D’Arcy had alread y filed on the claim and had done assessment work on it.

  Legally, there was no way Park could gain possession, and n o one legally could work the mine until D’Arcy’s claim lapsed.

  Above all, Park wanted to avoid any public connection wit h the name of D’Arcy. He couldn’t sell the claim, because i t wasn’t his, but if he could get control of the Bar M and th e Two Bar, across which anyone working the claim must go, h e could sell them at a fabulous price to an unscrupulous buyer.

  The new owner of the ranches could work the claim quietly , and by owning the ranches he could deny access to th e vicinity, so it would never be discovered what claims wer e being worked. When D’Arcy’s assessment work lapsed, th e claims could be filed upon by the new owners.-

  “Booker was to find a buyer?” asked Tharp.

  “Yes. Park wanted money, not a mine or a ranch. Booker , I believe, planned to be that buyer himself. He wante d possession of the Bar M, so he decided to murder Ru d Maclaren.”

  -You’ve no case against me that would stand in court!”

  Booker sneered. You can prove nothing! What witnesses d o you have?”

  We had none, of course. Our evidence was a footprint.

  All the rest of what I’d said was guesswork. Tharp couldn’t arrest the man on such slim grounds. We needed a confession.

  Tom Fox leaned over the table, his eyes cold. “Some o f us are satisfied. We don’t need witnesses an’ we don’t need t o hear no more. Some of us are almighty sure you killed Ru d Maclaren. Got any arguments that will answer a six-gun? Or a rope?”

  Booker’s face thinned down, and he crouched back agains t his chair. “You can’t do that! The law! Tharp will protect me!”

  Sighting a way clear, I smiled. “That might be, Booker!

  Confess, and Tharp will protect you! He’ll save you for th e law to handle. But if you leave here a free man, you’ll be o n your own.”

  “An’ I’ll come after you!” Fox said.

  “Confess, Booker,” I suggested, “and you’ll he safe.”

  “Aw! Turn him loose!” Fox protested angrily. “No nee d to have trouble, a trial an’ all! Turn him loose! We all kno w he’s a crook, an’ we all know he killed Rud Maclaren! Tur n him loose!”

  Booker’s eyes were haunted with fear. There was n o acting in Tom Fox, and he knew it. The rest of us ‘night bluff , but not Fox. The Bar M hand wanted to kill him, and give n an opportunity, he would.

  Right then I knew we were going to win. Jake Booke r was a plotter and a conniver, not a courageous man. Hi s mean little eyes darted from Fox to the sheriff. His mout h twitched and his face was wet with sweat. Tom Fox, his han d on his gun, moved relentlessly closer to Booker.

  “All right, then!” he screamed. “I did it! I killed Maclaren.

  Now, Sheriff, save me from this man!”

  I relaxed at last, as Tharp put the handcuffs on Booker.

  As they were leaving I said, “What about Park? What happened to him?”

  Tharp cleared his throat. “Morgan Park is dead. He wa s killed last night on the Woodenshoe.”

  We all looked at him, waiting. “That Apache of Pinder’s killed him,” Tharp explained.” Park ran for it after he buste d out of jail. He killed his horse crossin’ the flats an he run int o the Injun with a fresh horse. He wanted to swap, but th e Apache wouldn’t go for the deal, so Park tried to drygulc h him. He should have knowed better. The Injun killed him a n lit out.”

  “You’re positive?” D’Arcy demanded.

  Tharp nodded. “Yeah, he died hard, Park did.”

  The door opened, and Jonathan Benaras was standin g there. “Been scoutin’ around,” he said. “Bodie Miller’s don e took out. He hit the saddle about a half hour back an heade d north out of town.”

  Bodie Miller gone!

  It was impossible. Yet, he had done it. Miller was gone!

  I got to my feet. “Good,” I said quietly. “I was afraid ther e would be trouble.”

  Pinder got to his feet. “Don’t you trust that Miller,” h e said grudgingly. “He’s a snake in the grass. You
watch out.”

  So there it was. Pinder was no longer an enemy. Th e fight had been ended, and I could go back to the Two Bar. I s hould feel relieved, and yet I did not. Probably it wa s because I had built myself up for Bodie Miller and nothin g had come of it. I was so ready, and then it had all petered ou t to nothing at all.

  Olga had the Bar M and her uncle to run it for her, an d nobody would be making any trouble for Canaval. There wa s nothing for me to do but to go back home.

  My horse was standing at the rail, and I walked out t o him and lifted the stirrup leather to tighten the cinch. But I d id not hurry. Olga was standing there in front of the restaurant, and the one thing I wanted most was to talk to her.

  When I looked up she was standing there alone.

  “You’re going back to the Two Bar?” Her voice wa s hesitant.

  “Where else? After all, it’s my home now.”

  “Have—have you done much to the house yet?”

  “Some.” I tightened the cinch and then unfastened th e bridle reins. “Even a killer has to have a home.” It wa s rough, and I meant it that way.

  She flushed. “You’re not holding that against me?”

  “What else can I do? You said what you thought, didn’t you?”

  She stood there looking at me, uncertain of what to say , and I let her stand there.

  She watched me put my foot in the stirrup and swin g into the saddle. She looked as if she wanted to say something , but she did not. Yet when I looked down at her she was mor e like a little girl who had been spanked than anything else I c ould think of.

  Suddenly, I was doing the talking. “Ever start that trousseau I mentioned?”

  She looked up quickly. “Yes,” she admitted, “but—bu t I’m afraid I didn’t get very far with it. You see, there was—”

  “Forget it.” I was brusque. “We’ll do without it. I wa s going to ride out of here and let you stay, but I’ll be doubl e damned if I will. I told you I was going to marry you, and I a m. Now listen, trousseau or not, you be ready by tomorro w noon, understand?”

  “Yes. All right. I mean—I will.”

  Suddenly, we were both laughing like fools and I was of f that horse and kissing her, and all the town of Hattan’s Poin t could see us. It was right there in front of the cafe, and I c ould see people coming from saloons and standing along th e boardwalks all grinning.

  Then I let go of her and stepped back and said, “Tomorrow noon. I’ll meet you here.” And with that I wheeled m y horse and lit out for the ranch.

  Ever feel so good it looks as if the whole world is you r big apple? That was the way I felt. I had all I ever wanted.

  Crass, water, cattle, and a home and wife of my own.

  The trail back to the Two Bar swung around a huge mes a and opened out on a wide desert flat, and far beyond it I c ould see the suggestion of the stones and pinnacles of badl ands beyond Dry Mesa. A rabbit burst from the brush an d sprinted off across the sage, and then the road dipped dow n into a hollow. There in the middle of the road was Bodi e Miller.

  He was standing with his hands on his hips, laughing , and there was a devil in his eyes. Off to one side of the roa d was Red, holding their horses and grinning too.

  “Too bad!” Bodie said. “Too bad to cut down the bi g man just when he’s ridin’ highest, but I’ll enjoy it.”

  This horse I rode was skittish and unacquainted with me.

  I’d no idea how he’d stand for shooting, and I wanted to b e on the ground. Suddenly, I slapped spurs to that gelding, an d when the startled animal lunged toward the gunman I wen t off the other side. Hitting the ground running I spun on on e heel and saw Bodie’s hands blur as they dove for their guns , and then I felt my own gun buck in my hand. Our bullet s crossed each other, but mine was a fraction the fastest despit e that instant of hesitation when I made sure it would count.

  His slug ripped a furrow across my shoulder that stun g like a thousand needles, but my own bullet caught him in th e chest and he staggered back, his eyes wide and agonized.

  Then I started forward, and suddenly the devil was up in me.

  I was mad, mad as I had never been before. I opened up wit h both guns. “What’s the matter?” I was yelling. “Don’t yo u like it, gunslick? You asked for it. Now come and get it! Fast , are you? Why you cheap, two-bit gunman, I’ll—”

  But he was finished. He stood there, a slighter man tha n I was, with blood turning his shirtfront crimson, and with hi s mouth ripped by another bullet. He was white as death.

  Even his lips were gray, and against that whiteness was th e splash of blood. In his eyes now there was another look. Th e killing lust was gone, and in its place was an awful terror, fo r Bodie Miller had killed, and enjoyed it with a kind of sadisti c bitterness that was in him—but now he knew he was bein g killed, and the horror of death was surging through him.

  “Now you know how they felt, Bodie,” I said bitterly.

  “It’s an ugly thing to die with a slug in you because som e punk wants to prove he’s tough. And you aren’t tough, Bodie , just mean.”

  He stared at me, but he didn’t say anything. He wa s gone, and I could see it. Something kept him upright, standing in that white-hot sun, staring at me, the last face he woul d ever look up.

  “You asked for it. Bodie, but I’m sorry for it. Why didn’t you stay to punching cows?”

  Bodie backed up another step, and his gun slid from hi s fingers. He tried to speak, and then his knees buckled and h e went down. Standing over him, I looked at Red.

  “I’m ridin’,” Red said huskily. “Just give me a chance.”

  He swung into the saddle and then looked down at Bodie.

  “He wasn’t so tough, was he?”

  “Nobody is,” I told him. “Nobody’s tough with a slug i n his belly.”

  He rode off, and I stood there in the trail with Bodi e dead at my feet. Slowly, I holstered my gun and then led m y horse off the trail to the shade where Bodie’s horse still stoo d Lying there in the dusty trail, Bodie Miller no longe r looked mean or even tough. He looked like a kid that ha d tackled a job that was too big for him.

  There was a small gully off the trail. It looked like a grave, and I used it that way. Rolling him into it, I shove d the banks in on top of him and then piled on some stones.

  Then I made a cross for him and wrote his name on it, an d the words: HE PLAYED OUT HIS HAND. Then I hung his guns o n the cross and his hat.

  It was not much of an end for a man, not any way yo u looked at it, but I wanted no more reputation as a killer—m ine had already grown too big.

  Maybe Red would tell the story, and maybe in tim e somebody would see the grave. But if Red’s story was told i t would be somewhere far away and long after, and that suite d me.

  A stinging in my shoulder reminded me of my ow n wound, but when I opened my shirt and checked my shoulder I found it a mere scratch.

  Ahead of me the serrated ridges of the wild lands wer e stark and lonely along the sky, and the sun behind me wa s picking out the very tips of the peaks to touch them wit h gold. Somehow the afternoon was gone, and now I was ridin g home to my own ranch, and tomorrow was my wedding day.