Range Of Golden Hoofs

by John Trace

  Up in the courthouse Bert Cassidy threw his chew into a cuspidor, latched a belt about his middle and jerked down his hat. “Damned pup,” grated Cassidy, speaking of his boss, “runnin’ out on me! There ain’t goin’ to be no trouble! I’m goin’ out.”

  In George Delaney’s office Delaney peered through a crack between the window shade and window frame. “Louder has come to town,” Delaney said to Ramon de la Luz. “I just saw him pass.”

  “I think…” Ramon began.

  “I don’t like it,” Delaney snapped. “I wonder where Shea is.”

  “He isn’t coming,” Ramon announced. Ramon, having fortified himself with whisky from Delaney’s bottle, felt brave and confident.

  “You don’t know Dan Shea!” Delaney retorted. “He…I’m going out back a minute, Ramon.”

  Dan Shea, on big, white-stockinged Wellington, had ridden into the plaza. Vicente was behind him, looking back. George Delaney waited no longer. He had seen Louder’s men distributed about the square. He knew what was coming. Delaney walked past Ramon, not hurrying, apparently at ease. He opened the back door, stepped out and closed it; then he hurried his pace. Down in the alley, in a shed, there was a saddled horse.

  With Delaney gone, Ramon went to the window. He peeped cautiously out. The plaza was strangely quiet. There was no movement. To Ramon’s dazed eyes the scene presented itself. On the corners men stood frozen, motionless as statues. Ramon saw the reason for the quiet. There, where they could command, Louder’s riders stood, and in the hands of each man was a pistol, a heavy gun that menaced the small knots of Ramon de la Luz’s followers, that enforced the peace and the quiet. Dan Shea’s strategy was in operation, and, coming along the sidewalk with Vicente a step behind him, was Dan Shea.

  “Delaney!” Ramon shrilled. “He’s come. Shea is here.”

  There was no answer. Ramon turned and, running to the back door, threw it open. The alley was empty.

  “Delaney!” Ramon’s voice was high and filled with fright. “Delaney!”

  Dan Shea, coming along the sidewalk, saw Fitzpatrick and Perrier leave the door of the saloon and come toward him. From a distance there sounded the muffled roll of thunder and, for an instant, amazed at the sound, Dan stopped. Then realizing that the thunder was the pound of many hoofs crossing the bridge, Dan came on. Pete Ocano had not waited for “something to happen.” He was bringing the men of El Puerto del Sol on into town.

  Dan reached the door of Delaney’s office, turned the knob and threw the door open. For a moment, standing there, he could not see the details of the interior. The shades were drawn and the room darkened. Then, his eyes adjusted to the light, Dan stepped in. Behind him, the doorway instantly filled, Vicente, Perrier and Fitzpatrick crowding through. Perforce Dan moved to let them enter. The room was deserted and the back door was open.

  “Delaney!” Dan rasped and ran toward the back door.

  As he reached it there was a shot in the alley. Adobe chipped from beside the door, and Fitzpatrick’s broad hand against Dan’s back sent him reeling to sprawl in the alleyway. A shrill voice screamed: “No! No!” and rolling, scrambling up, Dan halted, resting on one knee. Ramon de la Luz was cowered against an adobe wall across the alley, and Fitzpatrick, legs widespread, arm extended, was leveling his long-barreled gun.

  “No!” Ramon screamed again. “No!”

  “No, Fitz!” Dan seconded Ramon.

  The gun in Fitzpatrick’s hand came level and poised. The hammer was back, and Fitzpatrick’s finger was on the trigger, but the hammer did not fall. Dan came on up to his feet. Ramon’s hands were lifted, and his weapon lay in the dust beside the adobe wall.

  “Where’s Delaney?” Dan rasped. “Where is he?”

  In his panic Ramon could not answer. He could only babble words, pleadings for his life. Fitzpatrick lowered the gun and, striding across the alley, jerked Ramon to his feet.

  “Where’s Delaney?” Dan rasped again.

  “Delaney’s run!” Fitzpatrick grated. “Got away.”

  Dan ran toward the end of the alley. It was empty. The street likewise was deserted. Fitzpatrick had hauled Ramon into Delaney’s office, was standing over him. Louder was at the door.

  Dan Shea burst through the back entrance to the office. “He got away,” Dan Shea raged. “Delaney’s got away. I’ll catch him.”

  Pushing past Louder, he crossed the office at a run and was out upon the street. The plaza was ominously quiet. Men from El Puerto del Sol, reinforcing Louder’s riders, occupied it. There was a buggy just rounding into the plaza, Gotlieb driving, Marillita wedged between the lawyer and Father John. Dan did not see the buggy. He ran on toward his horse, jerked the reins free and flung himself into the saddle. Perrier was running from Delaney’s office, calling to Mab, the hound; and Mab, still holding the reins of Perrier’s horse, came in answer to the call, the horse trotting after her. Dan’s horse reared, came down and pounded along the side of the plaza. Perrier mounted, wheeled his bay and followed Dan. At the corner the Englishman reined in and, bending low, called to a wide-eyed boy who stood there.

  “Which way did Delaney go?”

  The boy pointed toward the north. Perrier, straightening, pounded after Dan Shea, overtaking him.

  “North!” Perrier shouted. “He went north!”

  At the intersection Dan turned his horse, obeying that shout from behind. Following Perrier, the four dogs—Mab and Puck and their two fellows—loped easily.

  The riders went through the outskirts of the town, clearing the buildings. There were a few scattered adobes and then open country, the road stretching away like a ribbon toward the north, following the river valley. Dan reined in and waited for Perrier to come up. Far ahead where the road climbed to surmount a rise of ground, a horse and rider, miniatures in that sweep of country, appeared momentarily. Wordlessly Dan Shea started his horse ahead, breaking from walk to run in three great bounds. Perrier, a part of his mount, followed. They pounded down the road, the dust gouting up from the thundering hoofs.

  Atop the rise, with the width of the valley before them, they saw the dot of running horse and rider once more. Delaney was fleeing, making the most of opportunity. Dan Shea kept on, but Perrier, reining in, called sharply. “Puck! Here, Puck!”

  Perrier thrust out one stirruped boot. Puck came at command, as trained, reared, resting his forepaws upon the outthrust boot.

  “There, Puck! There!” Perrier pointed with his crop. “Hie on. Hie on, Puck!”

  There was no wolf, no coyote that Puck could see. He looked up at his master questioningly.

  “Hie on, Puck. There. Hie on!”

  The dog discerned the moving dot of horse and rider. Trained to the chase, obedient, he dropped down and swept away, and behind him came Mab and the others. Great bodies close to the earth, legs scissoring, fanged heads outthrust, they swept past Dan Shea, and behind them Perrier’s big hunter ate into the distance.

  So intent was Dan’s gaze upon the man ahead that he hardly saw the dogs go past. Delaney’s horse was running, covering country. Beyond Delaney the road, dropping to the bottom land, entered the brush, the thick growth along the river. If Delaney reached that hiding he might escape, and Delaney was closing the distance between himself and safety. And then Dan saw the dogs running low, cutting into the space between himself and his quarry, effortlessly, soundlessly.

  It was Mab that first reached Delaney. A wolf, she would have closed with instantly and pulled down. But this was no wolf; this was a man on horseback. For the first time Mab gave tongue and Puck, coming up, added his roaring voice. Delaney’s horse, frightened, bucked viciously as he ran and swerved away from the four-legged peril. Unseated, Delaney toppled, strove for control, lost it, kicked his stirrups free and fell heavily. About him the dogs ringed themselves, panting, waiting for their master. Dan Shea slid his horse to a stop as Delaney scrambled to his feet. The dogs, their tongues lolling, not knowing what was expected of them, waited. Dan dropped from his saddle, too
k two swift steps and confronted the man he had pursued.

  Delaney’s wild eyes sought an avenue of escape; noting the dogs, they then fixed themselves upon Dan Shea. Dan stood, regaining his breath, facing George Delaney. “It was you!” Dan accused. “You, Delaney!”

  Perrier had reached them and, stopping his horse, dismounted, in at the kill.

  “God damn you, Shea!” Delaney screamed. “Damn you!” His pistol, whipped from his belt, swung up level and exploded. Dan Shea felt the shock of the slug, reeled, caught his balance. Mab reared up, barking furiously. Puck was crouched, ready to spring. Almost as though this were a picture, Dan Shea saw all this: the dogs, Delaney’s wild eyes, his leveled gun. Then without volition, seemingly, his own weapon was out. He felt the sharp recoil against the fork of his hand, saw Delaney’s arm drop, and then the dogs were in and Perrier was shouting:

  “Mab! Back, Mab! Down, Puck! Down!” and, crop swinging, was among the snarling tangle of hairy bodies. Dan Shea groped behind him for support, touched a sweaty shoulder and leaned back against his horse. The world swam before him, and in the swimming world Perrier whipped the dogs away.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:

  TOMORROW

  When the dogs were at last quiet, when they lay in the dust, their tongues lolling, Perrier came to Dan. Blood dripped from Dan’s fingers, and his shoulder was afire. The little brown-faced man offered aid, baring the shoulder, wadding a clean handkerchief against the wound and binding it there. Dan hardly knew that he was being aided. He was sick, sick of heart, sick of body and of mind. Reaction had set in, and the anger that had driven him was drained away, leaving him weak.

  Perrier seemed to sense the sickness and the weakness. His voice, clipped and brittle, penetrated to Dan, whipping his mind back to life. “You had it to do,” Perrier snapped. “You gave him a sporting chance. You had it to do!”

  Dan made no answer. He looked past Perrier to where Delaney lay, inert, in the road. Perrier interposed his body between Dan and the dead man and spoke again.

  “I tell you, you had to do it!” There was anger in Perrier’s voice, as though he were irked by Dan’s seeming failure to understand. “My God, man! What else was there for you? Look here, Shea!”

  Reluctantly Dan turned his eyes until they met Perrier’s. Perrier’s blue eyes were bright and shining; his brown face was firm. “You can thank your luck that it isn’t you,” Perrier snapped. “He tried to kill you.”

  “But…” Dan began.

  “And you can be thankful that she’ll understand.” Perrier’s voice softened. “You did it for her. Marillita will know that!”

  It was true in a measure, this thing that Esme Perrier said. Marillita would understand, and in a way George Delaney lay there in the dust because of Marillita. Dan realized that. But only part of what Perrier had said was true. There were other, larger things. Dan Shea caught hold of himself, forced his mind back to sanity. Delaney was dead, killed by Dan’s hand. All the moil and trouble that had engulfed El Puerto del Sol was finished, and the man that had caused it was gone, forever through with his plotting. But…

  “I wasn’t so fortunate,” Perrier said slowly, his eyes averted from Dan’s face. “No. I wasn’t so fortunate.” He turned, staring up the road toward Bendición.

  Sharp in Dan Shea’s mind the words cut. Here then was a partial explanation of Esme Perrier. Somewhere behind the little brown-faced rider was a tragedy. Somewhere in his past was a woman who had failed to understand, who had been unable to perceive the force that made Esme Perrier what he was. That explained Perrier, explained his presence and his mode of living. Shaken as he was, Dan’s sympathy went out to his companion. He half raised his uninjured arm, reaching out toward Perrier.

  Perrier did not see the movement. “They’re coming out from town,” he announced. “They’re almost here.”

  Dan turned toward the south. Not two hundred yards away Louder’s foreman and three men from El Puerto del Sol were riding. Just behind the foreman was Vicente.

  They left the two from El Puerto to stay with George Delaney until a wagon could be sent out for the body. Vicente and Perrier helped Dan into his saddle, and he sat there quietly while Perrier gave the orders. Then Vicente, Perrier and Louder’s foreman mounted, and Perrier brought his horse up beside Dan Shea’s mount. So, without looking back, they took the road to Bendición.

  When the men reached Bendición the little town had calmed noticeably. True, there were still knots of armed men assembled on the corners. True, the men who had come from the YH and El Puerto del Sol patrolled the streets. But there was a lessening of tension apparent. Fitzpatrick met Dan Shea and Perrier as they entered the plaza. He took one look at Dan and ordered them to follow him. Close beside Delaney’s office Fitzpatrick stopped and, coming up to Dan, helped him to dismount.

  “Doc’s inside,” Fitzpatrick said.

  Dan Shea allowed himself to be led into the doctor’s office. Somehow he sensed, without being told, that things were under control. Fitzpatrick helped the doctor strip off Dan’s coat, shirt and undershirt. They sat down in the chair, and the doctor, a chuffy little man with thick glasses, made an examination.

  “Nice clean hole,” the doctor commented. “Went right through under the shoulder. Hmmm. Didn’t touch the bone. Lucky. Hmmm. Well, young man…”

  The doctor’s monologue was interrupted by the precipitous entrance of Marillita. The girl made straight for Dan and flung her arms about him, dropping to her knees upon the floor so that she could better reach him. Her tears were wet against his cheek, and her mouth soft against his own, and her arms were fiercely tender. After that first embrace she drew off, just so that her arms were not so tight, and she talked, her voice at once tender and fierce, happy and sad, reproachful and proud. She chided Dan Shea and she praised Dan Shea, and Dan, drawing her close with his good arm, kissed her again and stilled her flow of words, and the doctor puffed and hovered about anxiously and demanded that he be allowed to attend his patient. Finally the doctor’s voice broke in upon them, and Marillita got to her feet.

  The chuffy little man swathed shoulder and chest in bandage, muttering all the while. He fastened the bandage in place and informed Dan Shea that he was lucky and to come back to see him tomorrow. Dan heard not a word that the doctor said. He was looking at Marillita, and his eyes glistened. As soon as the doctor had done Marillita took possession of her man once more. She was helping Dan on with his shirt, at the same time telling him how she had forced Father John and Bruno Gotleib to bring her to Bendición, when Fitzpatrick made his appearance.

  “Pretty near through, Dan?” Fitzpatrick asked. “They want you in Delaney’s office.”

  Marillita buttoned Dan’s shirt over his arm which swung in a sling the doctor had improvised. She helped Dan on with his coat and then, taking his arm possessively, she went with him out of the office.

  Delaney’s office was crowded. Louder was there, and Gotleib. Perrier stood just inside the door. Bert Cassidy was standing, wide-legged, looking down at the pale-faced Ramon de la Luz. Old Tio Abrán was beside his nephew. Arturo occupied a chair in a corner of the room, very small indeed, with Vicente poised before him. Vicente had his hand upon the haft of the knife in his belt, and Arturo’s eyes were fixed with dreadful fascination upon that hand.

  “I wanted you to hear this, Dan,” Bruno Gotleib said curtly. “Ramon!”

  As though his name were a cue, Ramon spoke. His voice was flat, with the monotony of fear in it. Like a gramophone with a weak spring and an old needle, Ramon entered upon his recitation. His tale was complete. Twice during its telling Marillita swayed and found support in Dan’s strong arm. Once when Ramon spoke of the murder in the goat-herder’s rock house the girl murmured pitifully. But when Dan Shea suggested that she go Marillita strengthened. She was beside Dan. She would spend the rest of her life beside Dan Shea.

  “So that’s it,” Gotleib said, his lean face keen as he looked at Dan when Ramon’s recital was completed.
“That’s all of it. Delaney had planned everything, from stealing the file at Santa Fe right on through. He hired Maples killed and he killed Don Martin.”

  Dan Shea nodded soberly. Over beside the door Perrier’s voice sounded loud in the silence which followed Gotleib’s words. “Good dog, Mab,” Perrier said. “Good dog, Puck.” The men in the room turned toward that voice. Mab and Puck were standing in the door, their great heads just inside the room. Puck opened his mouth so that the mighty fangs were exposed, and he yawned as a dog sometimes will when pleased. Dan’s arm tightened about Marillita.

  Then Tio Abrán had his word to say. Tio Abrán, all through his nephew’s recital, had stood, a statue carved from mahogany and clothed as a man. His small black eyes under their white brows never left Ramon’s face all through the story. When Ramon was done Tio Abrán moved forward and spoke.

  “¡Cobarde!” Tio Abrán snapped, and then even more scornfully: “¡Tonto! Fool!” With that he turned abruptly and stalked toward the door. Louder made a move to interpose, but Fitzpatrick said sharply: “Let him go!”

  Louder stepped back and Tio Abrán went on out to the street. Momentarily he stopped and then, turning sharply to the right, approached a group of his adherents. Standing in the office door, Fitzpatrick and Louder watched the old man.

  It was plain that Tio Abrán de la Luz was telling his listeners what had occurred. Neither man in the doorway could hear the words, but they could see expressions and gestures. It was evident at first that Tio Abrán’s listeners were incredulous; then as he continued to talk their expressions changed. Tio Abrán made a spreading gesture with his arms as though scattering his kinfolk, lowered his arms and waited.

  “What’s he doin’?” Louder demanded. “Is he…?”