Catlow (1963)

by L'amour, Louis

  Twice he saw Miller on the street, but each time he was close to women or children, and in no place to start anything, and Ben Cowan was not an impatient man. On his third day in town, Ben Cowan saw the Mexican.

  He came up the street riding a hammer-headed roan horse that had been doing some running. He carried a carbine in his hand, wore two belt guns, one butt forward, one back, and crossed cartridge belts on his chest. His wide-bottomed buckskin pants had been slit to reveal fancy cowhide boots, and spurs with rowels bigger than pesos. The Mexican had a scar down one cheek and a thick mustache.

  The Mexican rode to the Quartz Rock Saloon and dismounted there. He kept his carbine in his hand when he went inside. A few moments later, Ben saw a Mexican boy leave the back of the saloon. Ben drew back into the doorway of a vacant adobe and lighted a fresh cigar. Soon the Mexican boy returned.

  Ben studied the roan. The brand was unfamiliar, and looked like a Mexican brand. The horse had come a long way, by the look of him, as had the man. But that was a rugged character, that Mexican soldier, and the ride would not show on him as it would on the horse ... or on several horses.

  Soldier? Now, why had he thought that? He could put his finger on no reason, yet he must have sensed something about the man--call it a hunch. And Ben was not a man who fought his hunches. Too often they had proved out.

  A Mexican soldier here probably meant a deserter--and from just where?

  A horse came up the street at a fast walk and Ben drew deeper into the shadows. The rider was Catlow, who dismounted and went inside.

  Catlow had come from the direction the boy had taken. It did not follow there had to be a connection, but it seemed likely.

  It was strictly by chance that Ben heard the voices.

  The doorway in which he stood was set back from the walk by at least two paces. The window of the adjoining building-- the side window--was only a couple of paces further back. What he heard was a girl's voice.

  "Kinfolk he may be, but he's none of our blood, Pa, and if you don't tell him to go, I shall."

  "Now, now, Cordelia, you can't do that! You can't just throw a man out of the house for nothing."

  "He's a thief, Pa, and probably worse. You know it, and I do."

  There was silence within, and Ben Cowan waited. He did not like to eavesdrop on private conversations, but in this case it was his business to do so, for without doubt they were talking of Miller.

  "Pa, he's afraid of somebody ... or something. He never steps into the street without looking out the window first."

  Her father was silent for several minutes, and then he said, "I know it, Cordelia." A pause. "Cordelia, I can order him from our home, but what if he refuses to go? I was not in the war ... I've never used a gun but once or twice. I doubt," he added, "whether any other man in Tucson can say that, and living in the country as we do, I am surprised that I can." "I would not want you to fight him."

  "If he refuses to go, what else could I do? I am afraid, Cordelia, that women sometimes make demands on their men without realizing the consequences."

  Ben Cowan had lost interest, for the time being, in Bijah Catlow and the Mexican soldier. For a moment he considered going in the shop next door and asking them to invite him to supper ... then he could leave with Miller and make his arrest. But to do such a thing might endanger the Burtons, and he had no right to bring trouble to innocent people.

  Miller was a cross-grained man with a hard, arrogant way about him, a man born to cause trouble wherever he might go. Ben Cowan tried to imagine Miller in the same house with Catlow, and could not; for Miller's attitude was just that calculated to move Bijah to action.

  A door closed and Ben Cowan stiffened, glancing swiftly to right and left ... could it have been the shop door? He heard no voices--only the pound of a hammer on leather. He started to step from the doorway and found himself face to face with Cordelia Burton. He swept off his hat.

  "I beg your pardon," he said, greatly embarrassed. "I--"

  She glanced from him to the window, then abruptly walked on. He was about to speak, but held his tongue. He remained there, staring after her. She was lovely, undeniably lovely ... she was also very definitely a girl who knew her own mind. After a moment of consideration, Ben decided that she was not overmatched in coping with Bijah, for Bijah was basically a gentleman. Miller was another item, another item entirely.

  Annoyed with himself, Ben started for the Quartz Rock. He felt a fool, being caught eavesdropping by such a girl, and he had stared at her like a damned fool.

  Cordelia Burton walked on down the boardwalk, her heels clicking. The momentary irritation she had felt on seeing the man standing where he could obviously hear all that was said within passed away, but she was puzzled.

  The man was a stranger ... a tall man with broad shoulders. In the shadow of the building she had seen only his chin, but he had spoken courteously and she had been wrong not to acknowledge it. Who could he be? And why would he be standing there?

  The building was empty. There was nothing nearby, unless ... unless for some reason he was watching for somebody at the Quartz Rock. Suddenly she had a distinct impression that there had been a badge on his chest.

  Badges were not frequent in Tucson, and she had never seen a man who resembled this one wearing a badge. He had been standing in the dark doorway of an abandoned building watching somebody or something. She flushed as she realized how self-centered she must have been to be so sure he had been listening in on her conversation. She paused on the corner.

  She knew she had best be getting home. It was late, and a decent woman kept off the streets at this hour. Yet her curiosity made her turn to look back. The man she had seen was crossing the street toward the Quartz Rock Saloon. At the same time she noticed Bijah Catlow's horse tied to the rail.

  She would ask Bijah--he would certainly know something about the tall stranger with the badge.

  Suddenly, from behind her she heard the quick step of a fast-walking horse, and it loomed darkly beside her. Despite herself, she looked up, and when she did so she recognized the chin.

  "Beggin' your pardon, ma'am, it's late for a lady to be out. If you'll permit, I'll just ride along to see you get home safe."

  "Thank you."

  Oddly enough, she felt shaky inside--an unusual sort of trembling feeling. But she kept on walking, looking straight ahead. After a moment, he spoke again.

  "Ma'am, I couldn't help overhearing back there." So he had been listening! Her lips tightened. "If you'll allow me to say so, you shouldn't urge your pa to kick Miller out. He might try it."

  "And so?"

  "You know the answer to that. Miller might kill him. More probably he'd shame him, which would be worse. It's a bad thing for a man to be shamed in front of his womenfolks ... it's sometimes worse than bein' killed. If he was shamed, he might get a gun and try it on Miller."

  Cordelia was appalled. Suddenly, for the first time, she realized what her indignation might mean to her father. Of course, Miller would not go unless he wanted to, and the thought of her father trying to face Miller with a gun touched her with icy fear.

  "I--I didn't think of that."

  "No, ma'am, and you didn't think about stayin' out this late. Supposing some drunk had come up to you and spoke improper. I'd have to speak to him, and he might resent it. First thing, ma'am, there'd be a man killed--and you'd be to blame."

  "It was my only chance to speak to Pa alone."

  She had reached the gate at her house, and she turned toward him. "Who are you? What are you?"

  "Ben Cowan ... Deputy United States Marshal in the Territory."

  "You--you came here after somebody?"

  "Miller's my man."

  Miller? Then why didn't he arrest him? It would solve everything. She started to say as much, but he spoke first.

  "I'll thank you to say nothing to anyone, ma'am. I want to do this in my own good time, and where nobody will be hurt--not even him, if I can help it." He turned his horse. "Eve
ning, ma'am."

  He rode away up the street, gone before she could thank him. She went through the gate, closing it behind her, then paused in the darkness to look after him. He was briefly seen against the window lights of a saloon.

  Bijah Catlow was sitting at the table talking to her mother as she placed the silver. He looked around at Cordelia. "I near came after you," he said. "It's no time for a decent girl to be out."

  "That's what Marshal Cowan said."

  Bijah gave a start. "Ben Cowan? You met him?"

  When she explained he asked, too quickly, "Did he tell you anything about me?"

  "No." She was surprised. "I had no idea you even knew each other."

  "Since we were boys. He's a good man, Ben is. One of the best." He looked at her again. "Cord, did he say why he was here?"

  She hesitated a moment. "No," she said.

  Pa would be coming along soon, and Miller, too. Miller had not met Catlow yet.

  Suddenly the door opened and Miller came in--a lean, rangy man with hollow cheeks and sour, suspicious eyes. He shot a quick look at Catlow, and Cordelia introduced them.

  Catlow's forearms lay upon the table. He looked up from under his shaggy brows, cataloguing Miller at a glance. "Howdy," he said carelessly.

  "Mr. Miller is married to my mother's sister." Cordelia decided she would make it plain at once that there was no blood relationship. "He is visiting us for a few days."

  Miller gave her a hard look at the words, "a few days." Then he said, "I got to be around longer'n I figured."

  There was a step on the porch outside and Bijah noted the quick way in which Miller turned to face the door. Moss Burton came in.

  "I'm driftin' south," Catlow said. He had sensed the situation quickly, recalling words he had heard dropped before this. "Why don't you ride along with me?" He put his eyes hard on Miller. "Men like you or me, we sleep better outside, anyway."

  The stillness that entered the room made Cordelia hold her breath. She hesitated, ever so slightly, before placing the last plate upon the table.

  "When I'm ready," Miller said, "I'll go."

  Catlow looked up at him and cold amusement flickered in his eyes.

  "Get ready," he said.

  Chapter Eight.

  Though Miller was a cautious man, now fury burst like a bomb in the pit of his stomach. He kept his eyes on his plate, but it was only with an effort that he fought back the urge to lunge across the table at Catlow. He forced himself to take a bite of food and to begin chewing.

  "This is your doin," he said to Cordelia. "I don't like it."

  "When you come visiting again," she replied coolly, "we will be glad to see you ... if you bring Aunt Ellie." Then with an edge to her voice she asked, "By the way, where is Aunt Ellie?"

  "She's in Kansas."

  "We'd love to see her. She is always welcome here."

  Moss Burton had started in from the kitchen, where he had gone to wash his hands. Now, desperately, he wished he had remained there.

  Miller saw him and started to accuse him, but Bijah Catlow was nothing if not considerate of the feelings of others. To save Moss the embarrassment of reiterating the request to leave, with all that might follow, Bijah interrupted Miller.

  "You ain't goin' to like it around here nohow," he said, grinning cheerfully. "Cordie's got herself a new gentleman friend."

  "What's that to me?"

  Catlow chuckled, a taunt in his eyes and in his tone. "Figured it might be. It ain't every day a girl has a U.S. Deputy Marshal comin' to set with her."

  The hot fury in Miller's belly was gone. Where it had been there was now a cold lump of fear. "I don't believe you," he muttered, and his fingers fumbled with the handle of his coffee cup.

  Catlow, who knew what the grapevine was saying, had a sudden hunch and played it. "Army paymaster killed over near Stein's Pass by a deserter. Were you ever in the Army, Miller?"

  Miller gulped his coffee to cover his fear. He had seen too much of what United States marshals could do when he had been around Fort Smith. Why had he been such a fool as to ride into Tucson? Too many people knew he had a brother-in-law here.

  He would have to get out. To go ... where? Prescott was out of the question--too many knew him there. Yuma, then? But someone at the Fort might recognize him. The Army was always moving men around ... and the thought of the Federal pen made him nervous.

  "That marshal means nothin' to me, but it's plain enough that I ain't wanted ... among my own kin." He pushed back his chair and got to his feet, glancing at Bijah, who watched him, amused but alert. "You, I'll see again."

  "Right outside the door, if you like," Catlow replied carelessly, "or in front of the Quartz Rock in half an hour."

  "I'll pick the time," Miller said, "and the place."

  "You an' Matt Giles," Catlow said.

  When Miller had gone, Cordelia asked, "What was that about Matt Giles?"

  "Man I used to know. Figured Miller might know of him."

  Bijah took Cordelia's guitar from its place in the corner and, tuning up, sang "Buffalo Gals," and followed it with "Sweet Betsy from Pike." He sang easily and cheerfully, just as he had sung around many campfires and in bunkhouses. He was a man who did everything well, and he did most things with something of a flair. As he sang, he watched Cordelia.

  She was, he thought, a thoroughbred. She had courage, and a cool, quiet strength, but above all she was a lady. Poised, without pretensions, and gracious, she was friendly, yet reserved. What she thought of him, Catlow had no idea. He had met her, asked to call, and had visited the house several times.

  Now he was going away, and for the first time he found, with some surprise, that he did not wish to go. He recalled what he had told Cowan about wanting to marry this girl, and he realized he had meant every word of it. Of his life she knew nothing. She assumed he was a cattleman looking for range--a few of them had drifted into Arizona, looking around. Henry C. Hooker had a herd of cattle stampede while driving them through the state for sale to the Army, and when the stampede was over the cattle were grazing around a cienaga in the Sulphur Springs Valley, and it was there he established the Sierra Bonita Ranch. Hooker started it; others had followed. All this was known to every child in the street, and Catlow was so obviously a cattleman.

  Cordelia would not have been likely to hear any of the stories about him, Bijah decided, nor would her father, for that matter. Moss Burton worked over his saddles, boots, and bridles, paying little attention to gossip; he ate his meals at home, and did not frequent the saloons.

  As Bijah played, idly strumming the guitar, his thoughts turned to the venture that lay ahead. There were twelve men in his outfit, and several of them were strangers, but they had been selected with as much care as possible. Bijah knew very well what lay before him. He possessed a sharp, intelligent brain, and he was using it in this.

  Every detail had been planned. Not only the move south and the taking of the money, but the escape. This, he felt sure, would be the crux of the whole thing. With any kind of luck, they could reach their destination unseen and, if all went well, take the gold. Their great danger lay in their escape, and to this he had given most of his thinking.

  If they were captured during their attempt on the gold they would probably be shot; otherwise they would rot in a Mexican jail. The courts were slow, and nobody would be in a hurry to try a bunch of gringos who had come into Mexico looking for trouble.

  His band of men had one thing in common: all spoke Spanish, Mexican-style, and all could pass as Mexicans. This would help during the ride south if they were seen, which Catlow hoped would not happen.

  One member of his outfit was a half-breed Tarahumara Indian who knew all the secret water holes and rock tanks, places known only to wild animals and wilder Indians. Catlow and his men would avoid the main trails, avoid the Apaches as well, and reach the heart of Sonora unseen.

  Not one of the men he had selected was known for having a loose tongue; nevertheless he had told the
m only a part of his plan. The escape route he kept to himself, and only the two involved knew about his cattle deal.

  Impulsive he might be, but Abijah Catlow had done the most careful planning for this big strike. He was going to make this one and get out ... and then to Oregon and the cattle business.

  It was after ten o'clock when he left the Burton house, and he took the precaution of having Cordelia take the lamp into the kitchen before he left by the front door.

  When he reached the house where he was living, Old Man Merridew was loafing at the door. "Marshal's inside ... wants to talk."

  Ben Cowan was sitting in the rocker in the dark, and Bijah removed the chimney from the lamp and touched a match to the wick. He replaced the chimney and looked across the lamp, the light throwing highlights and shadows on his strongly boned face.

  "You goin' to pull me in?"

  "No," Ben replied. "I just came with a friendly word of advice."

  Bijah chuckled. "What else did I ever get from you, Ben? What is it now?"

  "Miller ... you've made an enemy there, and the man's dangerous."

  "Him? Small potatoes. I ain't beggin' trouble, but if he wants it he can have it."

  "Don't low-rate him. He's worse than Giles."

  "Him?" Catlow repeated skeptically. "Miller? You're loco."

  "I know him. I followed him here from New Mexico. The man's a wolf. He'll wait a year, two years if necessary. He's a hater, Bijah. You and me were never that, and a hater is a tough man to beat."

  "That all you came for?"

  "It's a plenty. Did you ever know me to shy from shadows? I know the man."

  Catlow sat down and rolled a smoke. "All right. If you say he's that bad, I'll put my money on it."

  "I'm going to take him in, but I want him where nobody will get hurt if there's shooting. I can wait, too."

  Bijah sat down on the bed and pulled off first one boot and then the other. He sat there, holding the boot in his hand, wriggling his toes into comfort. Then he dropped the boot and removed his gun-belt, tossing it over the post at the head of the bed where it would hang near his hand as he slept.