Son Of a Wanted Man (1984)

by L'amour, Louis

  He was fast, but was he as fast and accurate as Ben Curry? In his innermost being Perrin doubted it. He shook off the doubt. He could beat him.

  He knew he could. Yet maybe it would not be necessary.

  There were other ways.

  One thing he knew. He would have to do something about Ben Curry, and he would have to do it soon.

  Mike Bastian stood before Ben Curry’s table and the two men stared at each other.

  Ben Curry was huge, bearlike, and mighty.

  His eyes were cool and appraising, yet there was kindliness in them, too. This was the son he had always wanted, tall, lithe, powerful in the shoulders, a child of the frontier grown to manhood, skilled in all the arts of the wilds, trained in every dishonest practice, every skill with weapons, but educated enough to conduct himself well in any company.

  “Take four men and look over the ground yourself, Mike,” Ben Curry was saying. “I want you to plan this one. The gold train leaves the mines on the twentieth. There will be five wagons, the gold distributed among them, roughly five hundred thousand dollars of it.

  “We’ve scouted the trail three times over the past couple of years, so all you’ll have to do is ride over it to be sure nothing has changed.

  “Don’t be seen if you can help it. Don’t ask questions or loiter around anyplace where people are. If you speak to anybody ask how far it is to Prescott.

  Let ‘em think you’re just passin’ through. “When you’ve pulled off this job I’m goin” to step down and pass the reins to you. You’ll be in command.

  You’ve known I intended to do this for some years now.

  “I’m gettin’ up there in years, and I want a few years of quiet life. This outfit takes a strong hand to run it. Think you can handle it?” “I think so.” “I think so, too. Watch Perrin. He’s got a streak of snake in him. Rigger is dangerous, but whatever he does will be out in the open. It’s not that way with Perrin. He’s a conniver. He never got far with me because I was always a jump ahead of him, and I still amyl” Curry fell silent, staring out the window at the distant peaks of the San Francisco mountains.

  “Mike,” he said, more quietly, “sit down.

  It’s time you an’ me had a talk. Maybe I’ve taken the wrong trail with you, raisin’ you the way I have, to be an outlaw an’ all.

  “I’m not sure what’s right an’ what’s wrong, an’ to tell the truth, I never gave much thought to it.

  When I came west it was dog eat dog and if you lived you had to have big teeth. I got knocked down and kicked around some. Cattlemen pushed me off the first homestead I staked, and killed my sister.

  “When I struck it rich in the mines some men moved in and took it away from me. They done it legal, but it wasn’t right or just, so I decided it was time to bite back.

  “I got some boys together, and when those fellers shipped gold from my claim we stole it back.

  Then I rode east and with a big outfit I moved in and ran off five hundred head of stock from that outfit that pushed me off my homestead.

  “They took in after me and I let the boys take the cattle over into Mexico and I went back and ran off another five hundred head whilst they were chasing the first batch. When I had those cattle started south with some of the boys I went back and pulled down his corrals, and stamped my brand on the door of his house. I mean, I burned it deep. I wanted him to know who hit him. “They taken in after me, the law did. They wanted me in prison, but I stayed clear of them. Now I was an outlaw, whether I liked it or not, and stamping that brand on his door had been a fool thing to do. “That’s the trouble with outlaws, they want to brag about what they’ve done.

  Well, I’d made my mistake but decided I would never do that again. “So all these years we’ve kept quiet about what we were doin’. My boys move in, get what they came after, and drop from sight. Those James boys now, ever’body knows who they are, so they have to stay hid out most of the time.” He paused. “Who you want to take with you? I mean to do your scouting?” “Roundy, Doc Sawyer, Colley, and Garlin.” Curry nodded slowly, then looked over at him.

  “Why?” “Roundy has an eye for terrain like nobody in this country. He says mine’s as good, but I’d like him along. Doc Sawyer is completely honest, and if he thinks I’m wrong he’ll say so. As for Colley and Garlin, they are two of the best men in the outfit. They will be pleased if I ask their help, which may put them on my side when I need them.” Curry nodded. “That’s good thinking. Yes, Colley and Garlin are two of our best men, and if there’s trouble later with Molina an’ Perrin, it will be good to have them on your side.” Later, when Bastian had gone, Ben Curry got up and walked to the window. He vas feeling restless and irritable and he did not know why, unless for the first time he was having doubts as to his course of action. What right did he have to start Mike down the outlaw trail? Maybe Roundy was right, and the time for all that was over and past. The country was filling up and the old days were fading. Even the Indians were settling down, unwillingly perhaps, but settling nonetheless. For several years past he had been careful in picking the spots for his boys to operate. Some of the small-town marshals were very tough men, and the townspeople were changing, too. Just look what happened to the James boys up there in Minnesota, shot to pieces by a bunch of farmers and businessmen. Bill Chadwell, Clell Miller, and Charlie Pitts had been killed, all three of the Youngers wounded and one of them so bad he could travel no further. Jesse had wanted to shoot him and leave him behind but the Youngers stood by their brother, so Jesse and Frank had gone off by themselves. And one of them wounded.

  The James boys had gotten a lot of sympathy because they were supposed to be still fighting for the Lost Cause. That just wouldn’t wash because most of the banks they robbed were southern banks operated by former Confederates or other southerners.

  Ben Curry turned away from the window and walked to the fireplace. Picking up his pipe from the mantel, he knocked out the ashes and refilled the pipe.

  Hell, he had trained the boy for what he was to do, and he would be handling a couple of hundred of the toughest men around. Although, come to think of it, the time was coming when the outfit should be cut down in size. Some of the boys didn’t take to this life. They liked to drink and carouse more, and they wanted to spend their money as fast as they made it. He thought back to Mora. Despite his scoffing at Roundy’s worries, he was having doubts himself.

  Tyrel Sackett? He had heard the boys talking about him but had paid little attention. After all, they were always talking about some gunfighter, some bucking horse, or something of the kind. Yet Roundy was right, he had been back in the hills too much. He was losing touch. That little town in Colorado, now? That should be an easy touch. Maybe he should start the kid on that one? And he had left some horses there with a rancher.

  Big, strong-looking man, ranching a rawhide outfit.

  He refit his pipe. He would have to watch Kerb Perrin. Perrin had not liked it a bit when he had suggested Mike to handle the treasure train. Perrin had not said much, but he knew him all too well.

  Kerb Perrin was dangerous. Perrin was shrewd, a conniver and a plotter, good at planning but apt to fly off the handle. He was given to impatience and sudden rages. Frustration infuriated him.

  Mike Bastian was excited. At twenty-two he had been considered a man for several years, but in all that time except for a few trips to Salt Lake City he had rarely left the mountain and canyon country where he had grown up.

  Roundy led the way, for the trail was a familiar one to him, an old Indian trail the outlaws used when they rode out of the country to the south.

  Snow still lay in some of the shadowed places, but as they neared the canyon the cliffs towered even higher and the trail dipped into a narrow gorge with sheer rock walls that gave way to rolling red waves of solid rock enlivened by the green of scattered cedar that seemed to grow right from the rock itself.

  In this wild country, seeing another human, even an Indian, was a rare thing. The Navajo
country lay south of them, and there were still a few scattered Paiutes, who probably knew this country better than anyone. Ben Curry had established a friendship with them right from the start, traded horses with them, left them occasional presents, and kept his men away from their camps.

  Mike followed Roundy, riding hump-shouldered on his ragged gray horse that seemed as old as himself but was mountain-wise and reliable in any kind of a pinch.

  Behind them rode Doc Sawyer, his lean, saturnine features showing little of what he thought, his eyes always alert and faintly amused. Tubby Colley was short, thick-chested, and confident, a hard jawed man who had been a first-rate ranch foreman before he killed two men and had to hit the outlaw trail.

  Tex Garlin was tall, rangy, and quiet. Little was known of his background aside from the fact that he came from Texas, although it was said that if he had been that kind he might have carved a dozen notches on his gun. Roundy turned his horse around a gay boulder and struck a dim trail along the face of the cliff, following a route that led them right down to the river.

  There was a small cabin and a square plot of garden. The door opened and a man awaited them with a rifle. His cold old eyes went from one to the other.

  “Howdy! I been expectin’ comp’ny.” His eyes went to Mike Bastian. “Ain’t seen him before.” “It’s all right,” said Roundy. ““This is Ben Curry’s boy. greater-than . “Heard of you. Can you shoot like they say?” Mike flushed. “I don’t know what they say, but I’ll bet a lot of money I can hit the side of that mountain if it will hold still.” “Don’t take no funnin’ from him,” Roundy said. “If he has to, he can shoot.” “Let’s see some shootin’, son,” the old man said. “I always did like to see a man who can shoot.” Bastian shook his head. “A man’s a fool to shoot unless there’s reason. Ben Curry taught me never to draw a gun unless I meant to use it.” “Go ahead,” Colley urged. “Show us.” The old man pointed. “See that black stick over there? That’s about fifty, maybe sixty paces. Could you hit that?” The stick was no wider than a piece of lath, barely discernible against the backdrop of rock. “You mean that one?” Mike Bastian palmed his gun and fired and the end of the black stick pulverized.

  The move was so smooth and practiced that no one of the men even guessed he intended to shoot. Garlin’s jaws ceased their methodical chewing and he stared as long as it would take to draw a breath. He glanced at Colley, spat, and said, “I wonder what Kerb Perrin would say to that?” Colley nodded.

  “Yeah,” he said softly, “but the stick wasn’t shootin’ back at him.” Old Bill took them over the swollen river in one hair-raising trip, and with the river behind them they started south. Several days later, after exchanging horses at several points along the way and checking the stock available at each stop, they rode into the little mining town of Weaver. Coney and Garlin rode in about sundown, followed an hour or so later by Roundy and Doc Sawyer. They kept apart, and when Mike Bastian rode in alone he did not join the others.

  Most of those gathered in the saloon were Mexicans who kept to themselves, but there were three tough looking white men at the bar whom Mike eyed warily.

  One of them glanced at Mike in his beaded buckskins and whispered something to the others, at which they all laughed. Mike leaned nonchalantly at the bar, avoiding the stares of the three men. One of them moved closer to him.

  “Hi, stranger! That’s a right puny suit you got there. Where can I get one like it?” Garlin heard and glanced over at Colley.

  “Corbus an’ Fletcher! And trouble hunting! Maybe we should get into this.” “Wait, let’s see how the kid handles it.” Mike’s expression was mild. “You want an outfit like this? Almost any Indian can make one for you.” He had taken their measure at once and knew the kind of men he had to deal with. There is at least one such in every bar. Given a few drinks they hunt trouble.

  “Just that easy?” Corbus asked.

  He was in a quarrelsome mood, and Mike looked too neat for his taste. Trouble was coming and there was no way to avoid it. If he walked out they would follow him. It was better to meet it head-on. “Just like that,” Mike said, “but I don’t know what you’d want with it. A suit like this would be too big for you.” “Huh?” Corbus was startled by the brusque tone. “You gettin’ smart with me, kid?” “No,” Mike replied coolly, “nor am I about to be hurrahed by any lamebrain, whiskey-guzzling saddle tramp.

  “You commented on my suit and I told you where you could get one. Now you can have a drink on me, all three of you, and I’m suggesting we drink up.” His voice became softer. “I want you to have a drink because I want to be very, very sure we’re friends, see?” Corbus stared at Bastian, a cold hint of danger filtering through. This might be dangerous going, but he was stubborn, too stubborn to laugh it off and accept the drink and end the trouble. “Suppose I don’t want to drink with no tenderfoot brat?” Corbus never saw what happened. His brain warned him as Bastian’s left hand moved, but he never saw the right. The left smashed his lips, and the right cracked on the angle of his jaw. He hit the floor on his shoulder blades, out cold.

  Fletcher and the third tough hesitated. Corbus was on the floor and Bastian was not smiling. “You boys want a drink or do we go on from here?” “What if a man drawed a gun instead of usin’ his fists?” Fletcher asked. “I’d kill him,” Mike replied.

  Fletcher blinked. He had been shocked sober by what happened to Corbus. “I reckon you would.

  All right, let’s have that drink. The boot hill out there already has twenty graves in it.” Relieved, the bartender poured. Nobody looked at Corbus, who was still out.

  “What will Corbus do when he gets up?” Colley wondered. Garlin chuckled.

  “Nothing today. He won’t feel like it. was There was silence and then Garlin said, “I can’t wait to see Kerb Perrin’s face when he hears of it.” He glanced over at Colley. “There’s a whisper goin’ around that the old man intends the kid to take over.” “That is the rumor.” “Well, he can shoot and he doesn’t waste around. Maybe he can cut the mustard.” Mike Bastian finished his beer as he heard a stage roll into the street. It offered an easy way out and he took it, following several men who started for the door.

  The passengers were getting down to stretch their legs and eat. There was a boardinghouse alongside the saloon. Three of the passengers were women, all were well dressed, with an eastern look to them. Seeing him, one of the younger women walked up to him. She was a pale, pretty girl with large gray eyes.

  “What is the fastest route to Red Wall Canyon?” she asked.

  Mike Bastian was suddenly alert. “You will make it by morning if you ride the stage. There is a cross-country route if you have a buckboard.” “Could you show us where to hire one? My mother is not feeling well.” Doe Sawyer was on the steps behind him. “Be careful, Mike,” he spoke softly.

  “This could be trouble.” Mike stepped down into the street and walked back to the stage with her. The older woman and the other girl were standing near the stage, but he had eyes only for the girl.

  Her hair seemed to have a touch of gold but was a shade or two darker than the hair of the girl who had spoken to him. She who had approached him was quiet and sweet. This other girl was vivid. Their eyes met and he swept off his hat. The girl beside him spoke. “This is my mother, Mrs. Ragan, and my sister, Drusilla.” She looked up at him.

  “I am Juliana. his Mike bowed. He had eyes only for Drusilla. “I am Mike Bastian,” he replied.

  “He said we could hire a rig to take us by a shorter route to Red Wall Canyon.” “Just where in the canyon did you wish to go?” he asked. “To the V-Bar, Voyle Ragan’s place.” He had started to turn away, but stopped in midstride. “Did you say-Voyle Ragan’s?” “Yes. Is there anything wrong?” “No, no. Of course not. I just wanted to be sure.” He smiled. “I wanted to be sure. I might want to come calling. his Juliana laughed. “Of course! We would be glad to see you. It gets rather lonely at the ranch sometimes, although we love it. Sometimes I
think I could spend the rest of my life there.” Mike walked swiftly away, heading for the livery sign he had seen along the street. These then were Ben Curry’s wife and daughters, and somehow Doe Sawyer knew it. How many others knew?

  He was their foster brother, but obviously his name was unknown to them. Nor would he have guessed who they were but for what Roundy had told him. Yet he was, as Sawyer had warned, treading on dangerous ground.

  He must reveal nothing of what he knew, either to them or anyone else. This was Ben Curry’s secret and he was entitled to it.

  Hiring the rig was a matter of minutes, and he liked the looks of the driver, an older man with a lean, weathered face and an air of competence about him.

  “No danger on that road this time of year,” the driver said. “I can have them there before the stage is more than halfway. I don’t have to take that roundabout route to pick up passengers.” “Take good care of them,” Bastian said.

  He left while the man was harnessing his team and walked back to the boardinghouse.

  Drusilla looked up as he came in. “Did you find a rig?” “He’ll be around in a matter of minutes. It will be a long drive but you could lie down in the back if you like. He was putting in some buffalo robes when I left.” “You’re very kind.” “I hope I am,” he said, “but all I could think of was that you were beautiful.” She blushed, or seemed to. The light wasn’t very good. “And I can come to visit?” “My sister invited you, didn’t she?” “Yes, but I’d like the invitation from you, too.” “All right. Now why don’t you ask my mother, too? She likes visitors as much as Julie and I do.” “I’ll have to take the invitation from you and your sister as being enough. If I ask your mother I might have to ask your father, too.” “He isn’t with us. His name is Ben Ragan and he is probably off buying cattle or looking at mining property. He travels a great deal. Do you know him?” “I’ve heard the name,” he said.