The Second Western Novel

by Matt Rand

  “Obviously, Bud, she hasn’t got him any more.”

  “She hasn’t? I don’t get it.”

  “You will, Bud,” Janey assured him.

  “All right,” the young man said with a shrug. “I’m willing.”

  “I don’t get it, either, Janey,” Denny said. “Something happen to old Steve Winton? That what you’re building up to?”

  “I won’t keep you in suspense any longer,” Janey answered. “Steve Winton has run away with Florabelle’s mama, Mamie. Mrs. Winton wanted Dobie to know about it, and she also wants him to know that she will welcome his calling upon her. Object, you know what. There, that’s the story. Now I don’t know which would be better for Dobie, whether we should go after him and bring him back, or let him keep going wherever that may be.”

  Charley McKeon grinned a little. “I don’t see that we have any choice in the matter,” he observed. “From the lickety-split way Dobie was goin’ when he lit out of here, the way I figger it, he oughta be nearin’ the state line by now, with California just a hop, skip an’ a jump away, and the Pacific just beyond it. If he gets a chance to get his second wind, he’ll take the Pacific in a stride. For my dough, we’ll never see Dobie Cantwell again, an’ neither will Mrs. Winton. I think she oughta start lookin’ around for another husband somewhere else. Dobie’s taken himself out of the competition.”

  “I’m gonna miss the ol’ buzzard,” Bud said. “But that’s life for you. Now, what d’you say we eat, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Denny added. “Say, Sing, bring on the grub like a good feller. Another minute, an’ I’m gonna be too weak to eat.”

  * * * *

  It was dawn, gray, and drab and chilly. There was a gnawing dampness in the air, too. The ground was soft and soggy, the result of the rain that had begun shortly after nine o’clock and which had persisted throughout the long night. It had tapered off to a drizzle just before dawn and stopped altogether when a tiny glow appeared in the colorless sky. Now a filmy, vapory haze that rose up from the ground began to climb into the sky. The haze seemed to be thickest around the ranch house and the bunkhouse, shrouding them with its sheer mantle, and joining forces with the deep, hushed silence that walled up around them. The big corral, midway between the two buildings, was empty since the horses had been removed to the barn when the rain began, and its emptiness made it look even bigger than it was. The churned-up dirt inside the enclosure was muddied, and here and there were brownish pools of rainwater. In spots, where there was grass, the wet blades looked shiny, as though they had been hand-washed. The worn bars that formed the corral usually gleamed white against the darkness of the night. In the first light of the new day the bars were dull looking.

  The silence was shattered suddenly. From the barn came a stirring, the sound of body movement, a faint whinny and the creak of saddle leather. Then there was the plod of a horse’s hoofs, thumping rather hollowly as the horse moved over the planking. Dave Moore appeared in the open doorway, leading his horse. They stopped outside the barn. Dave bent and tightened the cinches under the animal’s belly and lengthened the stirrup straps. He looked toward the house a couple of times, sweeping the shade-drawn windows on the upper floor with his eyes, apparently wondering which was Millie’s room. But there was no sign of anyone, and nothing to indicate which was her window.

  Dave heard the back door open and close, and his gaze shifted and focused eagerly on the head of the path. There was a moment’s wait, then a tall figure, that he recognized at once as John McKeon’s, came around the house from the rear and trudged down the path. He was tall and straight, and his carriage belied his years.

  “’Morning,” Dave said when the cattleman came up to him. McKeon grunted a response.

  “Hope I didn’t wake you,” Dave said.

  “I always get up ’round this time,” McKeon answered. “You’re pullin’ out kinda early, aren’t you?”

  Dave shrugged. “No point puttin’ off what I know I’m gonna do,” he said mildly. “Any news of your foreman?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “He’s all right, huh?”

  McKeon nodded.

  “That’s good,” Dave said. “He seems like a nice, friendly sort. What became of him?”

  “Oh, the danged fool holed up in one of our line shacks, an’ he had to stay put there on account o’ the rain,” McKeon related. “I kinda figgered that’d be the place he’d head for. ‘Long around eleven o’clock I saddled up his horse an’ mine, took along a couple o’ slickers, an’ I went lookin’ for him. Maybe I should’ve left him there where I found him instead o’ bringin’ him back with me. Mighta taught him a lesson. He was soaked to the skin. That shack was takin’ in water in a dozen places. I found him huddlin’ in a corner between some holes in the walls an’ some real leaks in the roof.

  “Goin’ off without eatin’ anything, son?”

  “I didn’t wanna bother anyone,” Dave answered. Then he added: “I was figurin’ on gettin’ my breakfast in town.”

  “You won’t find any place open if you get there too early,” McKeon told him. “I’ve put the coffee on, an’ Sing’s always got some biscuits or buns around. Soon’s you’re ready, Moore.”

  “I’m ready now, thanks,” Dave said.

  “Then come on.”

  Together the two men tramped up the path, around the house to the back door and went inside. There was a platter of buns on the kitchen table, and two places had been set. When McKeon pointed, Dave went forward to the table and seated himself. McKeon brought the coffee pot to the table and sat down in his usual place. He poured the coffee and pushed the milk pitcher and the sugar bowl closer to Dave. “Help yourself,” he said. He sat back. “What do you figger to do in town?”

  Dave sipped his coffee. “Good. Hits the right spot,” he said, looking up. “Dunno yet what I’ll do. Guess it all depends on what I find, an’ on what happens. Only thing I’m after though is gettin’ this killin’ business cleaned up.”

  “Uh-huh. You’d better watch yourself in town, Moore. Those Fowlers are tricky as well as ornery. They don’t do things accordin’ to rules, y’know. They make their own rules.”

  Dave smiled gently. “I know,” he said. “An’ I’ll watch myself an’ them, too.”

  “You comin’ back tonight?”

  “Right now, I don’t know.”

  “Need anything?” McKeon asked.

  “I c’n use a gun,” Dave answered. “If you’ve got one you can spare.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nope. Just the gun.”

  McKeon arose and walked to a wall cupboard, opened it and brought out two Colts. “One or two?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “One.”

  McKeon returned one of the guns to its place on the cupboard shelf. He closed the doors, trudged back to the table and laid the gun on it. Dave picked it up, hefted it and shoved it down inside his belt.

  “Want a holster for it?” McKeon asked.

  Dave shook his head. “I like the feel of it in my belly when I get pushed into a corner.”

  “Forget it. I’ve been around a long time, Moore. Mind if I give you a word of advice?”

  “Go ahead,” Dave invited.

  “Don’t try to bite off a bigger piece’n you c’n chew.”

  Dave nodded gravely. “I’ll remember that,” he said.

  “Just this much more,” McKeon said. “The door’s open any time you wanna come back. Even if it’s only to see Millie.”

  “Thanks,” Dave said. He hitched up his levis, pushed the gun down a little deeper inside his belt and turned toward the door. “’Bye.”

  “’Bye, Moore,” McKeon responded.

  Dave crossed the room to the door, opened it and went out. McKeon sat motionlessly, hunched forward a bit in his chair. He heard Dave stride down the path, but then his step faded out. There was a brief silence, perhaps a minute or two long. Then he heard hoofs, the plod and the quickening beat of them. Presently, they died a
way, and everything was quiet again. McKeon stirred. He sighed deeply and eased himself back in his chair. He heard a light step overhead, heard someone come down the stairs. He raised his eyes when Janey came into the room.

  “’Morning, Dad,” the girl said brightly.

  “’Mornin’, Janey.”

  She came to his side and kissed his cheek. “Did I hear hoofbeats a minute ago, or did I only imagine it?” she asked.

  “You heard th’m, awright,” he said, pointing to Dave’s empty coffee cup.

  “Oh,” she said. “Dave?”

  McKeon nodded wordlessly. She walked around the table and stopped behind the chair in which Dave had been sitting.

  “Is he coming back?” Janey asked, raising her eyes to her father’s.

  McKeon shrugged. “Dunno,” he replied. “Depends on things, I guess. I gave him a gun like he wanted, an’ I told him the door would always be open to him, but there wasn’t much more’n that I could do. He’d made up his mind, an’ nobody, ’specially me, was gonna change it for him.”

  Janey went to the cupboard, returned with a cup and saucer, poured her coffee and seated herself at the table. “I think he’ll be back,” she said after a while.

  “It’ll be awright with me.”

  “If only for Millie’s sake.”

  The door opened, and a head was poked in cautiously. It was Dobie Cantwell. He flushed a little when Janey looked up at him.

  “Oh, good morning, Dobie,” she said.

  “’Mornin,” the foreman answered meekly.

  McKeon twisted around in his chair. “Well, if it ain’t the old sweet-talker himself!” he said scornfully.

  Dobie glowered at John as he stepped inside. “Doggone it, John McKeon,” he sputtered. “Everybody’s entitled to make one mistake. I’ve made mine, an’ I’m through. You’ve made yours, an’ I never said a word and—”

  “Only mistake I ever made was teamin’ up with you,” McKeon retorted.

  “That was the best thing you ever did f’r yourself.”

  “An’ what was the other mistake I made?” McKeon demanded.

  “If you don’t know, I don’t aim to tell you,” Dobie shot back at old John. He trudged to his chair at the far end of the table and seated himself. In a moment he got up again, poured his coffee and sat down a second time. “Gonna clear off an’ be real nice.”

  “Hooray,” McKeon said grumpily. He gestured with his right hand. “G’wan, drink your coffee. Then clear out’ve here, an’ see about gettin’ some work done. One o’ these days, an’ I don’t aim to tip you off which one it’ll be, I’m gonna ride out an’ have a look around for myself. I’ve been takin’ your word for things too doggone long. An’ lemme tell you right here an’ now, Dobie Cantwell, it’d better look to me like there’s work being done around this place regular, or I’ll peel your hide off an’ nail it to the barn door!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was ten o’clock in the morning, and the bright sun had burned away the dawn’s mist and had dried up the last signs of the night’s downpour. The sun had driven off the chill, too, and now there was only the faintest breeze stirring the grass. The range that spread away in every direction to meet the distant horizon was a greenish carpet, alive with color that seemed to have been brought out in its fullest glory by the rain. The grass itself had never been more green, and the tiny clusters of wild flowers that dotted the range had never been so richly hued.

  Halted atop a rise that commanded a fairly broad view of the open country, Dave Moore eased himself in the saddle and loosened his hold on the reins. His horse promptly took advantage of it. He craned his neck toward a cropping of fresh young grass and began to nibble it. The halt was brief, intended only as a breather for the horse, and after a few minutes they went on again.

  The ground began to fall away shortly, forming a long series of overlapping slopes. Horse and rider began to negotiate the downgrade. The horse slowed himself when he slid a couple of times in the grass. He stopped after each mishap and trumpeted a little, raising his head and shrilling nasally. Each time that he went on again, he quickened his pace only to lose his footing and slide to a stiff-legged stop that left him quivering and bulgy-eyed.

  A mile dropped away, two miles, three miles, and then the ground was suddenly rougher, covered with coarser grass and studded with rocks and bald-faced, sun-bleached boulders. Presently there were long stretches of stony, barren ground and a couple of trails that crossed each other and wound away through the boulders in different directions.

  The horse sniffed a couple of times and stopped every now and then to look around. Dave did not understand, and tiring of the animal’s strange antics, he nudged him into movement each time. He wondered about the horse’s unusual behavior, and when he was unable to interpret it, he simply shrugged it off and put it out of his mind. It was some time later when he had occasion to review events that he thought of the horse’s actions again. He realized only then that the beast, with his keener senses of perception, had detected something that had aroused his suspicion, and that he had stopped each time, hoping to convey a warning to his rider. Dave, however, had not understood.

  The trail the horse and rider were following dipped and ran through a ravine. Perhaps Dave was not as alert as he might have been; perhaps his thoughts were too busily occupied for him to notice what was happening. Whatever the reason for it was, he suddenly realized they were in the ravine, but because it was too narrow for anything save straight ahead movement, there was nothing he could do but go on. The horse whinnied and stopped, and Dave, annoyed with him now, whacked him on the rump. The animal snorted a protest, but he plodded ahead even though he let Dave know he was doing it against his will.

  The horse had just reached the lowest point in the ravine when the horse stopped again, turned his head and looked at Dave who frowned and raised his hand to whack him again. He caught his breath, and his hand halted in mid-air. Standing at the head of the trail was a man with a half-raised rifle, and peering down at Dave from the sides of the ravine were two other men, and they, too, Dave saw in that glance, were armed with rifles. Slowly Dave’s hand came down.

  “Awright, you,” the first man called. He beckoned vigorously. “Come on. Up the trail!”

  Dave bent forward a little. The borrowed gun dug into his stomach. He was safe as long as he was able to retain possession of it. He tried to shove it deeper down in his belt in an effort to conceal it. Up the trail he went, his horse’s hoofs ringing metallically as they clattered over the stone and loose bits of shale under-foot. They topped the dip shortly, and when they moved onto level ground, the man on foot, still holding his rifle on Dave, backed off a bit. As his companions rode up and wheeled into position, one on each side of Dave, he noted that they had sheathed their rifles, and that both were holding Colts on him. They were a hard-looking trio, rough-looking and unshaven.

  “Where’d you get that horse, Mister?” one of the mounted men asked him.

  “Lookit the get-up on ’im,” the second horseman said. “Regular dude, ain’t he?”

  The first man was much more concerned with Dave’s mount than with his captive at the moment. He worked his horse up closer to Dave’s and peered hard at the animal. “Uh-huh,” he said after a moment’s study, settling himself again in the saddle. “Soon’s I saw ’im I figured it was Eddie Yost’s horse, an’ it is, Pete. He’s got our brand on ’im, awright.”

  “Yeah?” the other horseman said. “Only this feller ain’t the one we’re lookin’ for, that Moore critter. Accordin’ to what Ed told us, Moore was dirty lookin’. This feller’s a dude.”

  The man called Pete swung away and came up behind Dave. Suddenly he reached under Dave’s right arm, got his hand on the butt of Dave’s gun and yanked it out of his belt. Dave felt a sinking feeling in his stomach.

  “Carly,” the first horseman called. “Get your horse so’s we c’n get outta here.”

  The man on foot wheeled and darted away and dis
appeared behind a clump of brush. He backed out of it astride his horse and rode forward again.

  “What are we gonna do with him, Doak?” Carly asked, pulling up in front of Dave. “Take the horse an’ let him go?”

  “Don’t you ever listen to anybody ’cept yourself?” Doak retorted. He was a heavily built man; now he was red-faced. “Ed said we were to bring in whoever we found ridin’ Yost’s horse, an’ that’s exactly what we’re gonna do.”

  “We’d doggone better,” the third man added. “Ed ain’t in the mood these last couple o’ days to be crossed. He’s mad enough to take your head off, the way he snaps. All we’d hafta do would be to—”

  “Come on, Pete,” Doak said, interrupting him. “Let’s get going.”

  Doak had holstered his gun. Noticing it, Pete holstered his, too. Carly swung in behind Dave. He was still holding his rifle on him. Doak and Pete pulled out in front, a couple of strides ahead of Dave. When Doak flung something over his shoulder, something that sounded like ‘Ho—o!’, there was a general moving off. But, suddenly, Doak pulled back alongside of Dave and eyed him critically. “What’s that fancy rig for?” he asked.

  “S’matter with it?”

  “Everything,” Doak snapped. “I wouldn’t be found dead in it.”

  Dave held his tongue.

  “Where d’you come from?” Doak asked.

  “Colorado.”

  “What’d you do there?”

  “Worked on a ranch.”

  Doak scoffed openly. “Must’ve been a helluva outfit if they had fellers like you ridin’ for it. That where you learned to steal horses?”

  “I didn’t steal this one,” Dave said mildly.

  “You didn’t huh? Then how’d you get him?”

  “I found him.”

  Doak grinned crookedly. “Yeah, I’ll bet you did,” he responded. “I c’n just picture that, you amblin’ along an’ findin’ him. What was he doin’ when you found him?”

  “Nothing,” Dave answered calmly. “Just standin’ around.” Doak howled and slapped his leg, and the explosive slap made his horse turn his head and look at him questioningly. Pete, riding ahead of them, twisted around and looked back.