by John Trace
“And what?” Louder snapped.
“And it was George Delaney who killed Don Martin,” Dan concluded.
“Ain’t you forgettin’ Ramon?” Fitzpatrick asked.
“Ramon de la Luz hasn’t brains enough to figure a thing like this. It was Delaney! Delaney used Ramon.”
Silence followed that assertion. Gotleib rolled the parchments so that they crackled in his hands. Fitzpatrick, Perrier, Louder and Father John eyed Dan. “You have no proof of this, my son,” Father John said gently.
Dan turned to Gotleib. “You said,” he reminded, “that Delaney and Ramon de la Luz were in Albuquerque two days before Don Martin’s body was found.”
Gotleib nodded. “That proves nothing, of course,” he interposed quickly. “Legally…”
Slow anger rose in Dan Shea, hot and high and quick as a flame. “Legally!” he snarled. “Legally! Are you asking me to sit back and wait until I can prove this legally when I know?”
Gotleib shook his head. Perrier, rising, came over to stand beside Dan. Some of the Englishman’s reticence was stripped from him. His nut-brown face showed excitement. “I’m with you, you know,” he told Dan Shea.
Dan did not look at Perrier. Somehow he had known that this slight sportsman would be beside him in whatever he did. Father John’s eyes were troubled, and Gotleib was staring unseeingly at the papers he held in his hand.
“So?” Fitzpatrick prompted.
“So”—Dan’s voice was very low—“I’m going into Bendición and throw what I know into George Delaney’s face!”
Silence followed that statement. Louder got up and shook himself. His words were very prosaic and matter-of-fact. “There’s lots of folks around Bendición,” Louder stated, “who will side Ramon de la Luz. Some that will stand by Delaney too.” Fitzpatrick was nodding gravely. The lanky cowman paid no attention to the saloonkeeper. “I’m goin’ to the ranch,” he announced. “I’ll be back by daybreak with the boys. I was named in that suit too. Don’t forget that, Shea!” Picking up his hat, Louder started for the door. At the door he paused. “I’d take it mighty unkindly if you was to go without me.” The door opened and closed behind the cowman’s shambling figure.
“He’s right, you know,” Fitzpatrick reminded when Louder’s boot heels had ceased to sound on the porch. “There’s lots of folks that will side Ramon de la Luz and George Delaney. Lots of them!”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:
HOUNDS TO THE KILL
Sam Youtsey, sheriff of Seco County, knew that he was sitting on a powder keg. The sensation was far from restful. Since early morning Youtsey had watched his town of Bendición fill up with the hard-eyed adherents of Ramon de la Luz. Since early morning he had sought to learn the cause of the influx. His efforts had brought some results. Questioned as to why all his kinfolk were in town, old Tio Abrán de la Luz had shrugged his shoulders and given a partial answer. He understood, Tio Abrán said, that there was to be some trouble over the suit against Martin O’Connor. Ramon had sent out and asked him to come in. With that information Tio Abrán had borrowed papers and tobacco, rolled a cigarette and, forgetting to return the tobacco, walked away from Youtsey.
Sheriff Youtsey sought Ramon. He did not find the head of the De la Luz clan. Ramon was nowhere in evidence, and inquiry failed to locate him. Sam Youtsey gave up the search. There were many De la Luzes, many votes. Sam Youtsey wished to keep in the good graces of those voters. In his office in the courthouse he sat at his desk and consulted with his two deputies, Manuel Torres and Bert Cassidy.
Manuel was placid. There were almost as many Torres as there were De la Luzes and, come what might, Manuel was pretty sure of his deputy’s appointment.
“Some trouble, I hear,” Manuel said, answering Youtsey’s question. “The De la Luzes do not like El Puerto del Sol for a long time back. I theenk eet ees over that.”
“I know they didn’t like O’Connor,” Youtsey snapped. “But he’s dead. They ain’t got no cause to fight now.”
“Theese Señor Shea, he ees not dead,” Manuel commented. “Mebbe so they weel fight weeth heem.”
Youtsey grunted. Manuel was a weak staff upon which to lean. The sheriff turned to his other deputy. “What’s your idea on this, Bert?” he demanded.
Bert Cassidy shifted his chew of tobacco. “You might,” he suggested, “throw Ramon’s pants in the can. If you done that Ramon wouldn’t make no trouble.”
“Hell!” Youtsey exploded. “No trouble!” He stared balefully at his husky deputy. “That’s what you know about it! Where would I be next election if I done that?”
“Out of a job,” Bert answered promptly. “You could arrest Shea if it come to that. You didn’t get no votes from El Puerto last time, anyhow.”
Youtsey brightened. “I could do that, couldn’t I?” he said. “You ain’t so dumb, Bert. You stay here an’ look after things. Manuel an’ me ’ll ride out the bridge road an’ see what’s happenin’. Come on, Manuel.”
Manuel shrugged placidly and bestirred himself. “Si,” he agreed.
“You might change your mind about it,” Bert warned as Youtsey moved toward the door. “That bunch of sheepherders that went north with Shea was in town last night. They all had rifles, an’ they pulled out for El Puerto just as soon as they found out about O’Connor.”
Youtsey hesitated a moment. There was a lot in what Bert Cassidy said. Then happy inspiration seized the sheriff. “I’m goin’ out, anyhow,” he announced. “There was some sheep stole up the river, an’ Manuel an’ me ’ll go look into it. You hold down the office, Bert. I got confidence in you. Yo’re responsible.” With that the sheriff pushed open the door. “Come on, Manuel,” he ordered.
The sheriff tramped on out. Manuel smiled gently at Bert whom he did not like. “Adiós, amigo mío,” said Manuel and followed his boss out into the hallway. Bert, his plug of tobacco halfway to his mouth, stared at the empty doorway. Then, angrily, he slammed the plug down on the floor. “Can you beat that?” Bert Cassidy demanded.
Out of the courthouse, en route to the livery barn, Sam Youtsey got a good view of what he was leaving behind him. In the plaza, assembled on its corners, were little clumps of men. They looked warily at Youtsey as he passed them by. Not a man that was not armed, not a man that was not in some manner connected with the clan of De la Luz. At a rough estimate, and Youtsey’s estimate was not only rough but hurried, there were some extra adherents of Ramon scattered around the plaza. Youtsey, with Manuel shuffling along half a pace in the rear, did not pause for accurate counting or for words. He went to the livery barn.
“Lots of folks in town, Sheriff,” the hostler commented as he moved along the barn alley to the stall where the officer kept his horse. “Seems like there’s lots of people. It ain’t Saturday, is it?”
“No,” Youtsey answered. “It ain’t Saturday.”
The hostler brought out the sheriff’s mount. Manuel was rustling his own horse. “Headin’ out, Sheriff?” the hostler asked.
“Been some sheep stolen up north,” Youtsey answered. “I’m goin’ out to look into it.”
The hostler said, “Oh,” reflectively and cleaned off the horse’s back with his brush.
“Hurry up,” Youtsey commanded. “I want to get out there.”
“Yeah,” the hostler agreed and kept on cleaning the horse.
When finally he reached the outskirts of the town Youtsey was in a lather of impatience. The two horses walked across the bridge, their feet sounding hollowly on the planking. They pulled up the hill beyond the bridge, making for the mesa top where the roads forked. As they topped the rise the two, sheriff and deputy, stopped their horses. There, coming down the road toward them, was a small army. Mounted men, riding in irregular squadrons, filled the road. There were nearly a hundred of them, and in the van where—so they believed—it was their right to be, immediately following Dan Shea and the other leaders, were the ten riders from the YH. There was no mistaking their identity. Nonchalant, insouciant,
devil-may-care, the cow hands of the YH were coming in company with their traditional enemies, the sheepmen of El Puerto del Sol.
“Gawd!” Youtsey breathed. “Look at that!”
Manuel stared but said nothing. It was too late to retreat. From the front of that marching column four men detached themselves and came loping toward the sheriff and his deputy: Dan Shea, Jesse Louder, Fitzpatrick and Perrier. They drew rein as they reached their goal and Louder, looking sternly at Youtsey, made inquiry. “Where you headed, Sheriff?”
Youtsey cast aside all attempt at subterfuge. For once he spoke the truth, point-blank. “I’m gettin’ out of town,” he said. “There’s an army waitin’ in there for you.”
Louder looked significantly at Dan Shea. “How many?” he asked quietly.
“I don’t know. There’s fifty or sixty around the square.” Youtsey was sweating freely.
“I think mebbe you’d better go back,” Louder growled. “After all, yo’re the sheriff.”
“I ain’t goin’ back,” Youtsey said defiantly. “I’m not goin’ into the mess that you folks ’ll make. Not me.”
“Let him go,” Dan ordered. “We won’t need him. Is there a deputy in town?”
“Bert Cassidy’s there. You can get him if you want an officer.”
Louder and Fitzpatrick looked at Shea expectantly. “They’re waitin’ for us,” Dan drawled, paying no attention to Youtsey. “Well…”
“Well?”
Dan looked at the officer. “You go along, Youtsey,” he said, his voice not unkind. “Just high-tail it over the hill. Don’t head back to Bendición. That’s all I ask.”
“I ain’t goin’ back there.” Youtsey vowed. “Not now.”
“Then ride out.”
Youtsey pulled his horse to the left and, with Manuel, headed north. Dan Shea, Louder, Fitzpatrick and Perrier watched him go.
“That’s why I was against him last election,” Fitzpatrick stated. “No guts.”
“But he did us a favor,” Dan reminded. “He told us what there was waiting for us in Bendición.”
“Are we goin’ in?” Louder demanded.
“That’s where we started.”
“But if they’re waitin’ for us…”
“We’ll do it just a little differently,” Dan interrupted Louder. “You said that you were in this, Jesse.”
“I am, but I don’t want my boys to ride into an ambush. I…”
“I don’t think they will,” Dan interrupted once more. “Youtsey said the De la Luzes were waiting for us. Will they be waiting for you and your boys and Fitzpatrick?”
“No,” Louder answered, puzzled. “I don’t think so.”
An appreciative grin formed on Fitzpatrick’s face. Dan Shea smiled grimly. “If you went to town,” he said, “and kind of posted yourselves where it would do the most good, it looks to me like we could dodge a lot of trouble. I don’t want to kill men that have nothing to do with this. I don’t want to kill anybody. All I want to do is to throw what I know in Delaney’s face.”
Louder pushed back his hat. With knotted brown fingers he scratched his gray hair. “I could put about four men on each corner,” he said. “Before anything started they could get the drop. Shea, yo’re smart.”
“It ain’t no wonder you Yanks beat us,” Fitzpatrick chuckled. “Yore smart tricks would take in anybody. How do we do this an’ when do we go?”
“I’ll tell you,” Dan Shea said.
With Perrier’s dogs lying in the dust, watching their master with adoring brown eyes, the four men held consultation. Then, in couples, they rode back to the waiting army. Dan Shea called Hilario to him. Hilario listened while orders were given. He nodded agreement and then, with Cercencio and Nopomencenco, trotted off toward the bridge. After perhaps ten minutes three others of the herders who had accompanied Dan on the long drive followed Hilario and his companions.
“That’s all for now,” Dan informed Louder. “We can’t send too many.”
Louder nodded. “When do you want me to go?” he asked.
“Pretty soon now. We’ll let Fitz and Perrier go in first.”
“That would be better,” Fitzpatrick agreed.
The men from El Puerto del Sol, under Dan’s instructions, left the road, secreting themselves in the brushy draws close by it. Fitzpatrick and Perrier talked together. Louder, joining his riders, dismounted and entered into discussion with his men. Dan Shea stood apart by himself, looking at the road, at the river and the bridge and not seeing them. He was thinking about El Puerto del Sol.
Gotleib was at El Puerto. The little lawyer had wanted to come but, obedient to Dan’s wishes, had remained at the ranch. Marillita also was at El Puerto del Sol. Worn out with her long vigil beside her father’s bier, weak from the sudden shock she had suffered, Marillita—Dan hoped—was resting. Obedient as a weary child, at Dan’s suggestion she had gone to bed, and while Dan Shea and his friends sat in grave consultation, Marillita slept.
During the consultation Hilario, Vicente and the herders arrived. To them Dan Shea had confided something of what he knew, something of the plans that had been made. He could trust these men. Long months of close association had bound them to him. They were his men and, equally, he was their leader.
Roused momentarily from his meditation, Dan glanced down beside him. Vicente squatted there, his bright black eyes fixed upon Dan Shea.
“I go with you, Señor Dan?” Vicente asked.
“You go with me,” Dan assured.
Vicente smiled. Dan’s eyes grew moody once more. Again he retired into his thoughts. It was all right, Dan thought. Gotleib and Father John would see Marillita through no matter what happened to him, Dan Shea. Gotleib had the evidence. Gotleib would work and fight, if necessary, and assure Marillita of continued possession of El Puerto del Sol. The priest would comfort her. El Puerto del Sol! It was bigger than Marillita, than Dan Shea, bigger than them all and more demanding. Martin O’Connor had made El Puerto del Sol, and Martin O’Connor was dead. Salvador Ocano had been born on El Puerto, and Salvador had spent his life in the service of the place. He, too, was gone. Dan Shea marveled a little at those things. El Puerto del Sol was a possession; it was owned, and yet in the final analysis it was El Puerto del Sol that was the possessor, the owner, the master of them all.
“We’re goin’ now, Dan,” Fitzpatrick announced. “Perrier and me.”
“Good luck, Fitz,” Dan answered.
They rode away, Perrier on his great bay horse, his dogs following. Dan glanced at his own mount. He was riding one of Perrier’s horses, the big Wellington he had ridden on that hunt so long ago. Fitzpatrick and Perrier! El Puerto del Sol had swept them up just as it had gathered in himself, Dan Shea. Momentarily Shea thought about the Englishman. What lay behind Perrier? he wondered. And why was Perrier riding off with Fitzpatrick? Because of Dan Shea? Men and dogs dropped from sight over the hill. Dan’s thoughts returned to Marillita.
She knew nothing of this venture. The expedition had been organized while she slept. While Marillita rested El Puerto del Sol gathered itself to strike back at the men who menaced it. To Dan Shea, waiting there, it seemed almost as though El Puerto assumed a personality. El Puerto del Sol became a monster demanding homage, service and finally revenge.
Louder came strolling over from his men. “Who’s goin’ with you, Shea?” he demanded.
“Vicente,” Dan answered.
Louder grunted and eyed Vicente speculatively. “I hope this works,” he said. “I sure hope it does.”
“You needn’t go in,” Dan said quickly.
“Hell!” Louder spat into the road. “Who said anything about not goin’ in? I declared myself, didn’t I? I anted, didn’t I? Damn it, Shea, I got as much stake in this game as you have.”
“You’d better go then,” Dan answered calmly. “It’s time.”
“All right,” Louder agreed. He walked over to his horse and, mounting, spoke cheerfully. “Come on, boys.” All about Jesse Loud
er his men rose into their saddles. They rode away with a small, swaggering clatter. Dan watched them go and then, walking back along the road, spoke to the men who rose up to meet him.
“You will stay here,” he ordered. “I will go to town presently, but you will stay here.”
Young Pete Ocano, Salvador’s son, spat into the sand. “Sí, Señor Shea,” he agreed. “We will stay here…unless something happens.”
Perforce Dan let it go at that. So far he was in control, but behind him was El Puerto del Sol, and El Puerto del Sol might wrest the control from him. These men were El Puerto del Sol, and Pete Ocano’s succinct words spoke their mind. Dan had not wanted them to come, but they had come. Now they would remain under his command unless, as Pete said, “something happened.” Dan nodded and went back to his horse and Vicente. The next move was in his own hands. After that…
“We go now, Vicente,” Dan Shea said.
About the plaza in Bendición men stirred. Beyond the plaza, in the outskirts of the town, Hilario Bargas and Cercencio and Nopomencenco distributed themselves, guarding the outskirts. Hilario stood at the door of a friend’s house, talking, and Cercencio and Nopomencenco waited at the corner of the house, watching the street. At the entrance of another alleyway three more of Dan Shea’s herders lounged, the focusing point for many curious eyes. From a house a man slipped away and walked toward the plaza, bearing the word that the herders were in town.
In the doorway of Fitzpatrick’s saloon Fitzpatrick himself stood talking to Perrier. Perrier’s dogs were lying in the street, and great Mab held the bridle reins of Perrier’s horse in her mouth.
“About time,” Fitzpatrick murmured, and Perrier nodded agreement.
Debouching upon the plaza, coming along the street that led to the bridge, a compact group of riders trotted, Jesse Louder in the lead. They stopped their horses at a hitch rail and, dismounting, tied their animals. With many a tug at chaps or gun belts, they separated, spreading about the square, talking and laughing together, splitting up into pairs, each man, seemingly, with a chosen companion. The YH had come to town. The pairs of men strolled around the plaza and, somehow, without apparent design or objective, located themselves upon the four corners of the square.