Radigan went prowling for bear sign and found a dishpan piled high with them. “You stay out of them,” Child admonished. “Spoil your supper.”
“Seems to me,” Radigan said, “you’re the one who should get married. You’re getting fussier all the time. Should have married years ago.”
Child surprised him. “I was married, one time. Married a Cheyenne girl I stole from the Utes who’d taken her prisoner one day. She was right pretty, and mighty scared of those Utes, so I spoke her language and it was a comfort to her. Nighttime I cut loose a couple of horses and the girl and took out. They chased me more’n a hundred miles.”
“What happened?”
“We lived north of here. Had one boy, but he was killed in a fall from a horse. Utes again. We were travelin’ when they came up on us. They got my wife, shot her through the head first off. I made a run for it with the boy, and he was killed, too.”
“Tough. “
“We had some good years , . . raised a girl, too. She lived with us four, five years and then we put her in a convent in Mexico. She was thirteen then.”
“She wasn’t your daughter?”
“No. Comanches took her from a wagon train where they’d killed her family. I traded four horses for her. She stayed at that convent a couple of years, then she lived with some high-class Mexican woman and her husband until they decided to go to Spain.
She didn’t want to go.”
Radigan filled his plate and sat down at the table. He had not realized he was so tired. Part of it was the warm room after the long, cold ride-he felt sleepy.
“Whatever happened to her?”
Child cleared his throat and Radigan glanced at him. “What’s the matter?” Radigan demanded. “Are you sick?”
“No. Well-she’s coming here.”
“What?”
Radigan was wide awake. “Are you crazy? What would we do with a girl here in the middle of a fight?” “Where else can she go? And when I told her to come on, well, this here fight wasn’t heard of. She’s eighteen now and she figures I’m the only person she can come to.”
Radigan got to his feet, exasperated and worried. “Damn it, John! What’s got into you? This is no place for a girl. Why, she’s not even a blood relative!”
“Seems like she is. Wrote to me all the time. She always wanted to come back to the mountains. I guess I was the only father she ever had, although I ain’t fixed to be much of a father. She always wanted to come back here, but I talked her into staying on. Those were mighty fine folks she was with and I figured a girl should learn about things like keepin’ a fine house and such.”
Radigan was exasperated. There was no use blaming John Child, but to have a girl coming here at this time … if one thing was needed to make matters worse, this was it. Two men can go on the dodge in the hills no matter what the weather, but they’d have trouble enough caring for themselves without carting a female along.
“Seems I might take her to Santa Fe,” Child admitted reluctantly, “but she wanted to be with me, and well, she never really had a father.”
Radigan looked at him, then his good humor got the better of him and he laughed. “This is worse than the fight. That we could get out of. What do we know about women?”
When supper was over he went outside, first lowering the light, to make a final round of the ranch. The news meant that John Child must go and he would have to stay on alone. With only two men it would be bad enough, but one man alone?
Not for an instant did he consider allowing the girl to remain. It was no place for even an Indian girl to be, let alone a girl who had grown up in a convent. The house was a position that could not be held throughout a long fight. If they could make a brief stand there it would be fortunate, but they must plan to get away, to move, to keep themselves alive.
The object of battle was the destruction of the enemy’s capacity to resist. And as long as they were mobile they were free and able to fight back. If they were tied down they would be destroyed.
The principle of warfare, so far as Tom Radigan was concerned, was attack, always attack. It did not matter that he would be alone, or outnumbered at best, he must attack. Even a stronger enemy could be put on the defensive and kept there.
This was the reason behind the secret caches of food and ammunition, and every move was being made with the idea of retreat to the forest and mountains. And tomorrow they would begin pushing stock back farther into the remote valleys.
Two days they worked, and it was hard, driving work from morning until night, with the late hours before bedtime devoted to planning. And then Jim Flynn showed up.
“They’ve got the papers,” he said. “They’ve got a deed. It was a grant from Governor Armijo giving them title to the old Villasur grant.”
“He didn’t have it to give. That grant isn’t worth the paper it’s written on, Jim.”
“I don’t know about that, but you’ve got to get off.”
“No court has ordered me off. My title hasn’t been disputed in court. These people are trying to run a bluff. Armijo didn’t own that land, the state didn’t own it.
He had no title to give anyone, and believe me it will take a lot more than they have to get me off.”
“We’ve got to settle this thing,” Flynn protested irritably. “I won’t have a cattle war.”
“Then please remember I’m in possession. Let them go to court. That’s the proper way to advance a claim, not by hiring a gunman and trying to kill the man in possession.”
“You don’t know they did that.”
“Who else?” Radigan turned toward the door. “Come on in, Jim. Let’s talk about this.
Anyway,” he added, “what are they going to do if I don’t move? Use force? You talk to them, Jim. Believe me, they haven’t a leg to stand on.”
Flynn sat his saddle stubbornly. He could not believe that such people as Angelina Foley and Harvey Thorpe would try to push a claim to which they had no legal right.
He was sure that Radigan was wrong and his persistence was irritating. Never had he had any business with land titles or courts. His experience with the law was simply the enforcement of it against toughs and gunmen.
Radigan turned around. “Jim, tell them to take their claim to court. I’m staying on.”
“You’re almighty sure,” Flynn said angrily. “What are you-a lawyer?”
Radigan walked back to the horse. “Jim, between 1825 and 1828 there were three temporary governors here in New Mexico, and one of them was Armijo. In 1837 there was a rebellion at Taos and a mob of rebels killed Governor Perez. Armijo managed to become commander of the counterattack and when it was successful had himself proclaimed governor.
“There’s a lot of stories and at this late date a man can’t get at the truth of it all, but there’s folks that say he murdered a lot of people including the rebel governor as well as some of his own supporters and friends. He managed to bribe himself into favor with the government of Mexico and his appointment was confirmed.
“He was replaced in 1844 by Lejana, but after a year he was back in office, and making a mint of money by holding up traders on the Sante Fe Trail for a heavy tax on each wagon.
“Moreover, he finagled around with some of the old land grants and rewarded friends with grants of land to which he had no legal title. My guess is that this Foley girl got hold of one of those old grants and she’s trying to make it work for her. “
Flynn was out of his depth and knew it. He could handle a drunk or a lynch mob, and on two occasions had shot it out with gunmen who wanted to prove themselves. The only legal paper he knew anything about was a warrant.
“You got as much?” Flynn demanded belligerently. “What’s your claim? Squatter’s right?”
Radigan shook his head patiently. “Jim, I have legal title to all the land I need, including water rights, and more than that, I’m in possession. My title will stand investigation. These people are deliberately trying to put me off land that I own.”
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br /> “Don’t blame me!” Flynn said angrily. “Don’t blame me if the lid blows off’!”
Tom Radigan put his big hands on his hips. “I won’t blame you, Jim, but I suggest you go to them and order them to stay out of this part of the country. You’re the deputy sheriff, and these people will be breaking the law.”
Flynn’s face darkened. “You don’t tell me my job! I know my job, and I’ll do it!”
“You seem ready to enforce the law against me,” Radigan replied. “And I’m the only one who is in the clear.”
“I ain’t so sure about that!” Flynn swung his horse. Without a backward glance he started down the trail toward town. It was going to be a long, dark ride.
Two miles below the ranch and overlooking the canyon of Vache Creek was a huge promontory that thrust itself out from the canyon wall like a great watch tower, and there Tom Radigan took up his post. By day a man could see for miles down the canyon, and by night he could hear. The still, cold air let sound travel for miles.
Leaving his horse picketed near a clump of aspen he walked out on the broad brow of the promontory and seated himself beside a rough wall of stone that gave partial shelter from the cold wind.
There were other trails. One led over the Nacimientos behind him from the Rio Puerco, but it was a dim trail known to few besides the Indians and difficult to follow.
There was another from the east that led from the Springs to Cebolla and then the mesa to a point just opposite his present position. The chance that they would know of either of the trails was slight.
At midnight he turned over the watch to John Child and at daybreak, after a quick breakfast, he was in the saddle. “She should be there,” Child told him. “The way I figure she should be coming in on today’s stage, but you’d be better off to let me go. I d’clare, Tom, sometimes I don’t figure you’re in your right mind … they don’t even know me.”
“They’d know. They’d have you spotted in no time. The risk is mine, so you just sit tight and be sure nobody moves in while I’m gone.”
“Tom,” Child hesitated, “want I should ride up to Loma Coyote? Or I could send up a smoke? There’s some good men up there, fighting men.”
“Forget it.” Radigan started his horse and then looked back. “If you see any of them, find out who’s around.”
“Stark is there.” Child walked after the horse. “You remember Adam Stark. He was a Ranger the same time you were, killed a man in El Paso and went up the trail. Best rifle shot I ever saw.”
“Good man.”
San Ysidro was quiet under the late autumn sun. It was just short of noon when he rode the buckskin down the street and almost the first man he saw was Sam Coker.
They tied up at the rail only a few feet apart, but Radigan was not worried. Coker was a trouble hunter, but it was rare that a trouble hunter would start something without an audience.
Hickman was seated at a table in his soiled buckskins, his feet on the table and a bottle at hand. Hickman, Radigan had noticed, always had a bottle but the level of it rarely diminished.
The room was long and low, the building was adobe. The bar was half its length, and there were only a few tables, it was a shabby, down-at-heel room bare of any decoration aside from the fly-specked mirror behind the bar. Downey was at once the stage agent and saloon-keeper, a lonely, hard-faced man who had tended bar in a dozen boom mining towns and who retained few illusions.
“Stage be in about one o’clock?” Radigan asked.
“Should be.” Downey pushed a bottle at him. Downey liked him, Radigan believed, as much as he liked any man, but he must be getting a lot of business from the newcomers.
“Join me?” Hickman suggested, pulling his feet off the table. He glanced past Radigan at Sam Coker who had come up to the bar.
Radigan carried his own bottle to the table. “The sign doesn’t read for peace,” he commented.
Hickman grinned. “I can read the smoke.” The door had opened and two other men came in. “The big one is Barbeau. He fancies himself in a brawl. He picked a fight with a drifter the other night and gave him a wicked beatin’. The other one is Bitner.”
Downey brought them a tray of food and Barbeau turned to watch. “And the condemned man ate a hearty meal,” he said. “And Balaam’s ass spoke,” Radigan said.
Barbeau turned sharply around and stared at him, while Downey chuckled and Hickman grinned widely. Two other men at another table were both grinning.
“What was that?” Barbeau asked.
But the moment had passed, and Radigan was eating, ignoring him. Barbeau stared at him, then looked around truculently, hoping for some false move. He was ignored and after a minute he turned his attention again to Radigan. “I wonder if he can fight like he can eat,” he asked.
“Maybe somebody should find out,” Coker suggested. Radigan was enjoying the meal, as he had not realized how hungry he was. “Hadn’t figured I was this hungry,” he said, “hut John made some bear sign the other day and I’ve eaten nothing else for the last two days.”
“You want warriors,” Hickman said. “You let that get out. You could get more fighting men with bear sign than you could with money, grub being what it is in this country.”
He filled his glass. “I’ve seen cowhands ride sixty, seventy mile for chance at bear sign.”
Barbeau took another drink and then turned with his back to the bar. He was spoiling for a fight and did not like being ignored, and the drinks had fired his blood and convinced him he was ready.
At the table Radigan had missed nothing. An old campaigner when it came to brawls, he knew every move that was being made. He glimpsed Coker moving a little toward the door to cut off any retreat, and Bitner had moved toward the rear. Barbeau was a broad, thick man with a coarse beard and the thick hands of’ a really powerful man. He had heavy features and a hard jaw set above a short, thick neck.
Low-voiced, Radigan told Hickman, “Stay out of it. This is my fight.”
Hickman studied him quizzically. “Three’s quite a handful,” he commented. Then he added, “He comes right in, slamming with both hands. And he’s hard to stop.”
Barbeau was getting set. Radigan needed no map to see how the trail lay, and he sat very still, looking into his cup and mentally cataloguing the room around him and its tactical possibilities. And then the door opened and Angelina Foley came in.
She came directly to Radigan’s table and he got to his feet politely.
“Now look at that!” Barbeau sneered. “A real gent!”
“Mr. Radigan?” Her eyes were even greener than he had remembered. “I heard you were in town and hoped to see you before you left. I wanted to tell you how sorry I was that we are putting you off the land. If we could pay you for your trouble? The offer is still open.”
“You’re mistaken, Miss Foley. Someone has given you some wrong information again.
I’m not moving.”
“Please!” Her finger touched his sleeve and her eyes were very large. “We own the land, and you must go. I am afraid that if you do not go some of my men will want to force you to move. I thought … well, when I heard you were in town I hoped we might reach an agreement.”
“Will you sit down?”
She hesitated an instant, then seated herself. Radigan sat down and as he did so he heard Coker say, “Any minute now, they’ll serve tea.”
Radigan turned to Downey. “Do you have any tea?” “Tea? Tea! … Well … sure, but-”
“Make some, and serve it to us here, will you? But make a lot … make a gallon of it.”
“A gallon? Of tea?” “That’s right.”
Hickman leaned back in his chair studying Radigan with a curious glint in his eyes, but Radigan turned to Angelina. “You were about to say-?”
“I wish you’d reconsider … I mean, about moving. And I meant what I said about paying for your improvements. Naturally, we are as sorry about this as you.”
But I’m not sorry.” Radigan smiled at her.
“I’m not sorry at all. I do regret that you have come so far without checking, without knowing what you were getting into. If you really wish to see how little you have in your favor, just take it to court.”
“But the courts are so far away, Mr. Radigan!” Her eyes opened wide. “And they take far too much time! I am sorry, indeed, but Mr. Thorpe and I have more than three thousand head of cattle coming up, and if you won’t move, we’ll have to move you.”
“Know anything about that land, ma’am?”
“I haven’t seen it, of course, but Mr. Thorpe has. Why do you ask?”
“Simply this. If I were to move off that ranch and let you have it, you couldn’t winter three thousand head of cows up there … if you had a free hand and no trouble at all, you still couldn’t do it. There isn’t range enough, there isn’t feed enough.
If a man had a good winter he might get through with a thousand head.”
She stared at him, taken by his obvious sincerity, but not wanting to believe him.
“But I heard it was the finest grass in the world, and that there was plenty of water.”
“It is all of that, but there isn’t enough of it. I’ve hoped to open trails to other valleys where cattle could be kept, but as it is, that’s mostly timber country, over half of it stands on edge, and probably the easiest way to be rid of you would be to step out and let you try it. You’d lose cattle, men and horses.”
“You seem to have done all right. I can scarcely believe you, Mr. Radigan.”
He nodded to indicate the men at the bar, aware they were listening. “Above all, what will you do with your hands?” It was a chance to inject some doubt into their minds. “There isn’t work up there for more than two or three men on the few acres you’ll have.”
“Acres?” she protested. “There are miles, twenty-two square miles, to be exact.”
Downey came in with the tea. “Had to use two pots,” he explained. “Never had such a big order before.”
Radigan took the smallest pot and filled their two cups and then he quietly drew his gun. “Serve the rest of it to them.” Radigan indicated the three men at the bar with his gun barrel. “I’ll see that they drink it.”
Radigan (1958) Page 4